The Cravin’ – read by The Well-Versed Mom

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LATE OCTOBER, in my kitchen: for some sugar I was itchin’
and I knew that satisfaction lay behind my pantry door.
Though I should be upstairs sleeping, here I was, downstairs, creeping
‘round my kitchen, no one peeping as I tiptoed ‘cross the floor.
Nothing stirring, just me creaking, sneaking softly ‘cross the floor
for one Kit-Kat, nothing more.

Ah, how happy and how handy to have bags of bits of candy
tucked inside each nook and cranny after purchase from the store.
Bought but not meant to be eaten, bought for kids for trick or treatin,’
bought for goblins who come knocking, trick or treating at my door.
Gobs of candy here so handy stored behind my pantry door–
Oh, those Kit-Kats I adore!

All those candies so fantastic bulging from their bags of plastic
thrilled me – filled me with a crazy craving that I’d felt before.
So that now, to satisfy it, I ignored my sweet-free diet
and let appetite run riot, scarfing Kit-Kats by the score.
I let appetite run riot, crunching Kit-Kats by the score,
till the bag had nothing more.

Still my craving grew much stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Time,” said I, “to raid my other sweet- and treat-filled reservoir.”
For the fact is when I’m craving chocolate candy I’ve been saving,
you can bet that I’ll be caving – misbehaving – that’s for sure.
So for new treats I went seeking, sneaking to a closet door:
“Just a few treats, nothing more.”

Deep into that closet peering, long I stood there perservering,
craving, raving for the chocolates that lay waiting by the score:
Kit-Kat, Krackle, even Skor bars –
Hershey’s, Twix and many more bars,
one by one, they disappeared as through the bulging bags I tore.
Milky Ways, Three Musketeers — their wrappers spilled upon the floor.
Then: just wrappers, nothing more.

Back upstairs I started heading, something deep within me dreading
what I’d have to tell my kids and those who’d knock upon my door.
What excuses would deceive ‘em? Lies I’d tell, who would believe ‘em?
How explain my thievin’ of the candy bought mere days before?
Then – it came! – I’d simply blame my faithful fellow candy-vore:
“‘Twas the dog! She’s poached before.“

Satisfied with this solution, plotting now its execution,
up I headed to my bedroom, with a vow I firmly swore.
Next year, would this mom be buying gobs of candy and then lying
and denying my own role in its depletion yet once more?
Dare I tempt my will again with bags of chocolate bars galore?
Quoth this mother: “NEVERMORE!”

©2013 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz

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