Poor Man’s Snack
A poem to reminisce over a snack that heals my inner child
My mom always called it the poor man’s snack–
Buttered toast with cinnamon sugar
Simple to most, but a luxury the poor man knows
My mom had to give me the heel of the bread
Her cigarette sits in the ashtray, the smoke dances in the air
A nice doctor gave me a teddy bear to hold if I’m ever scared she’ll lie with the dead
It’s the end of the month and the pantry is quite bare
She’s scribbling down numbers, and I sense she feels dread
I’m doing homework at the kitchen table, and mom’s making me a snack–
Buttered toast with cinnamon sugar
Simple to most, but a luxury my mother knows
Country Crock isn’t even real butter
I’m surrounded by nicotine-stained walls
She’s scared of the prognosis, but the doctor has to cut her
Our cat, she naps in the sunlit halls
I hear the words to my dad: “Will we ever be out of the gutter?”
I’m at a friend’s after school, and her dad’s grabbing us a snack–
It isn’t buttered toast with cinnamon sugar
Simple to most, but a luxury my friend does not seem to know
He hands me a bag of chips from one of those variety packs
I know better than to ask for these again at the grocery store
Mom would get mad at me, and I know that for fact
With cheese-coated fingers, do I dare ask for more
I wonder if anyone would notice if I ever left home with a knapsack
It’s almost time for bed, and mom asks if I’d want to share a snack—
Buttered toast with cinnamon sugar
Simple to most, but a “luxury” I don’t want to know
She’s really sick again, and she doesn’t have much of an appetite
My honesty about her current state shouldn’t have been met with such a gaze
Who knew telling your loved one to go to the hospital would provoke such a fight
They gave her an expiration of seven minutes to seven days
The doctor’s news proven to be a blight
I haven’t eaten in days, but I really should have a snack—
Buttered toast with cinnamon sugar
Simple to most, but a luxury my mother no longer knows
This kitchen is empty of her presence
My hand trembles holding the butter knife
God, if you’re listening, I’d like to file a grievance
How selfish did you have to be to take her life
Maybe I’ll change my snack of choice to antidepressants
It’s been over a decade, but to this day, it’s my go-to snack—
Buttered toast with cinnamon sugar
Simple to most, but a luxury my inner child knows
The toast is both buttery and sweet
You see, when I was younger, I dissed her
But after all, bread and butter are some of my favorites to eat
Now I’m 28 and I miss her
When my time comes, over the “poor man’s snack” we’ll meet
About the Creator
Summer Robinson
"I want to do something splendid before I go into my castle–something heroic, or wonderful–that won't be forgotten after I'm dead." –Jo March, Little Women
Bold, outspoken, and loyal all in one–I aspire to be a modern day Jo March.
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Reader insights
Nice work
Very well written. Keep up the good work!
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Comments (4)
Brilliantly crafted Summer, and powerful too. I like how the refrain of toast changes in every verse, and also how something so simple can mean so much 👏
Good work
This is wonderful and touching, you make me cry, very well written ❤
Loved this