Each time I open a package of the hazard-orange crackers,
I think first of my mother, Doris, who called them “Nabs,”
And then of myself as a college freshman between classes,
Feeding a vending machine. My wife says food that color
Must be toxic. Now, it’s mother-in-law Mary with snacks
Fit for a brown bag, school lunch box, day camp pack:
My sorry choice, wrapped in cellophane maybe weeks ago,
Loud like Longhorn Cheddar, glazed with peanut butter.
I chomp on what I shouldn’t want, as stubborn as my dad,
Who refused to see a dentist until he didn’t need his teeth.