I dug into the bag

like digging for keys,

loose change, or

a crumpled receipt.

No carbs up a sleeve,

like townhouse crackers,

or black and white cookies.

The deep pocket,

the last of the mini

cinnamon doughnuts

made me work for them.

Comfort for a cost.

Powdered dust, evidence,

all over my jeans

revealed finger prints

for an open and shut case.

Maybe the judge will

let me off easy.

In these times I’d

fair better with a jury

of my peers…

They would offer me

a glass of milk.