I thought, "How wonderful it must
be to be America's favorite cookie"
while I stirred my Mac + Cheese.
But then I remembered the Philippines,
and how such sweet empires of flavors
could be imperially absorbed and
disintegrate from sweetest compounds
to chemical stomachaches.

"It must've at least been wonderful
that popcorn was America's favorite
snack."  I stopped stirring and watched
the pot boil after thinking of Native
American Indians, and how a culture
with an eternity as half-life and covalently
bonded with nature was erased
by our salesman, comb-over smiles,
by our sweeping sulfuric ionic bonds
carried by Manifest West Winds,
taken from Naked glory to bare ruin,
then mass produced as light, enjoyable fluff.

I guess I felt a little bit like
Lady Liberty stirring that pot of
Faces before the powdered indulgence of
cheesy obsessions took over.
Back when it was "Give me your tired"
and they will be one of us; before
they were prepared regularly for
corporate consumption.  Before
she looked like she had taped
cicada poison to her body and let them
(engage in their symphony of scratching
themselves and) succumb to cellular
intoxication.
      Before she was drunk too.

When my mom made Mac and Cheese there wasn't
any unnatural freckles of powder,
the only ingredient was "You can be
anything you want in life."
She stopped being my favorite chef when
I left for college and it was
inconvenient for me (we hadn't talked
much since then), but I decided I'd
give her a call and see if I couldn't make
her some grilled cheese to pay back
a little bit of that debt, until I
remembered she doesn't like the charred real deal.