The Last Muffin

The Last Muffin

The kitchen light flickers and buzzes
Threatening to cast the apartment into darkness
Or at least, a deeper darkness, for even with the dying light
It was always full of shadow.
On a sticky off-white counter top there sits a plastic box
Three rows, four columns, twelve spots in all,
Each belonging to a muffin.

Soft as down and full of warmth and sweetness,
They fill my mouth like the Holy Spirit
And bring good tidings of joy with every blueberry bite.
A wonderful way to start a morning,
As if I had my whole life ahead of me.
As if there was nothing bad in all the world
And nothing that could hurt anyone.

Now the box is empty
Gaping open like a pharaoh's tomb,
Long since ransacked for its gold.
Each space desolate, a little plastic womb
Barren of children
Of sweet, sweet children that bring joy to a home
Save for one.
It is the remainder
The sole survivor
The star seen through the clouds
On a dark and stormy night.
Stale but magnificent it gleams
Like an oversized gem on a monarch's finger.

It is the last muffin.
It is the hope that God gives.
It is the symbol of the indomitable strength
Of the human spirit
It is also breakfast
And I am hungry.

Now the last spot is bare
And the immolation of all things good in the world
Is complete and irrevocable.
The last muffin is gone
And the only thing left
In this god-damned apartment to eat
Is a bullet.