limited edition flavor

everyone has their own private capitalism
like a daughter in their coffee cup. 
a hand beneath a pillow. the self without 
any lungs. the little hunger that eats the dark.
mine is a gone flavor. something marketed
with shiny teeth & iridescent packages.
mystery flavor the color of cave fish. 
i am a collector of limited editions. cereals
& cookies & boyfriends & door knobs. 
i let them cure like smoked meats.
wait until they're  stale. fists in 
plastic bags. they inspire a frenzy only known
by feet in the rain. all afternoon i go out
to the side of the road & i collect cans & wrappers.
inside each is a talisman. a bone left 
by the devourer. we are all brushing lips
& thumbs. i want the limited editions to stay
forever. to keep me company at the end of the world.
let me shove my hand into a box of heart-shaped
fruit loops. knuckles smelling like dream oranges.
when someone leaves me i make them 
a package to put on a shelf. i shred the cardboard.
i once emailed a manufacturer pleading with them
to not get rid of my favorite cereal. they responded
surprisingly with kindness. they said,
"sometimes we have to take off our gloves 
& weep." i asked if they were a poet & they emailed back,
"we are all poets until we're not." i get down
to the bottom of the box of sweet wheels.
drive the car to the supermarket without you.
call you five times until the phone expires. 
i do not want the only promise to be that
a new brief handful is on the horizon. still, i chase them.
climbing onto the roof. convening with
the conveyor belt gods. a machine with a belly
of sugar. it is never long enough.