On the nights
She would
Binge on its sweet
The day had been
A bitter pill
Jammed down her throat
Dry
The flood of its richness
Dislodged her ire
Its arctic foxtrot through her cells
Numbing the ache
Of life's gut punches and body shots
Every calorie vital
To augment her spindly nerves
To cook a meal
Would suggest she had stamina
A hunger for the savory
But her demons
Frequently broke bread together
Made a buffet of her appetite
Toasted repeatedly to their treachery
Guzzled her spirit
And left her to deteriorate
But there was always ice cream
Therapist without inquiry
Only panacea for her ills
Silent comrade
With caring smile
Refuge from the firing line
Luxury like
Sturdy flannel PJs
And chin-hugging electric comforters
Mid-blizzard
Enough apology for her troubles
To pacify her sunken heart
And when the carton was depleted
So
For the time being
Were her woes
©2016 Charlene E. Green
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