THE DAY TWINKIES DIED

I left for lunch, that’s what I told them,
I really don’t eat much for lunch, maybe
stop in the Happy Wok for Dim Sum or
whatever they call that Chinese buffet.

Walk down Spring Street pick-up the NYT
only on Wednesday, Friday and Sunday.
When I finish reading the Wed and Fri
editions I drop them off to my neighbor,
Janet, who usually reminds me that she
is a college grad, I forget what school
she told me she graduated from, maybe
some obscure Teachers college somewhere
in the Mid-west.

The Sunday edition I usually finish reading
by Wednesday and give it to Don, the art
gallery owner. I drop-in on a daily basis
to kibitz and see if he has any new pieces
that I may be interested in. Don actually
sold one of my poem’s, he displays some
of my poems in the gallery, 15 bucks.

Anyway, I go into the Mexican grocery
store, I don’t believe the Mexican’s call
them bodegas so I ask the guy behind
the counter, BTW, this little grocery store
reminds me of the Italo-American store
I worked at as a teenager in Brooklyn
same smells of oily floors and fresh
vegetables.

“Hola”, I ask the guy if he sells Twinkies,
BTW, the gays also expropriated this
name for their young-set “Twinks”,
does he even know what Twinkies are?

“No senor.”