Hot Pocket Reflections, Version 1

When I was younger

I had piano lessons at my Mom-Mom's house

late each Saturday morning.

She had lunch ready for my brother and I each time;

One of us had our lesson before

and the other would have it after eating.

*

Sometimes, on my favorite days,

We would have Hot Pockets for lunch

I loved the smell of cheese, dough, and ham

Heating up; a shrill beeping chorus from the microwave

Signaling that our little meal was ready.

*

Those were the good old days-

I would read a book after lunch,

resting as my brother completed his turn at the keys

with a happy young heart

and a stomach replete with Hot Pockets.

*

It was only years after we moved away and

the piano lessons stopped, that

I first heard some jokes, prods, and cynicism in regards to

one of my favorite frozen bites.

*

Instagram comments, YouTube videos, and

a well-meaning, unaware friend each shared the perspective

at one point or another

that Hot Pockets are a sad meal, for weary, overworked bachelors-

as if the lives of others, who might consume those lovely dough pillows,

whether in stereotype or reality,

and which they thought sad and unfulfilled,

had somehow tainted with some unpleasant, sad, color

a thing which most would otherwise accept as a bright little flavor package.

*

And tonight I find myself at 22,

Hot Pocket in hand, the brother with whom I now share an apartment

and a keyboard (on which we try to keep honed the musical abilities

gifted us by our sweet Mom-Mom) sitting just across the room.

I am wearing like gloomy sunglasses the cynical perspectives of

so many others

who chuckle, cringe, or roll their eyes

at silly old Hot Pockets. And for a moment,

I look sadly at the little meal in my hand, wondering

what happened

*

Until

*

The smell reminds me of those lunches at my Mom-Mom's house,

And suddenly I see the soft spring light filtering onto her pine table -

And I hear the laughter from a meal with family

that genuinely loves one another's company, as well as

the soft notes of my brother's piano lesson -

And I feel my Mom-Mom's gentle, veined hands

guiding mine on the yellowed ivories -

And I taste the steaming hot cheese, dough, and ham

that made me so happy, so long ago.

*

And I realize

I do not give a damn

what other people have to say about Hot Pockets -

because they remind me of my Mom-Mom's love,

and of lovely, bright days,

and besides that

They still taste really, really good.

*

And so tonight, I am happy to be 22,

in my apartment,

eating a Hot Pocket,

just like in the good old days.

*

***

Author's note:

First off, thanks for reading! This is a raw, rather unstructured, stream of thought kind of poem- it felt like the best way to communicate honestly the things which I felt that I needed to. I am writing it late-ish at night without much editing or review of any sort, and feel alright about it! Nevertheless, I do also feel compelled to use words more carefully/intentionally in an eventual 2nd version of this poem. I hope to post that one within the next few days, but we'll see how things turn out!

Anyhow, I hope you're doing well! What do Hot Pockets make you think of? Do you have any unexpected or unorthodox foods which are tied to memories or people?

Cheers, friends! :)

UPDATE: Here is the revised version!