Comfort is like candy corn.
The first two kernels are delicious:
a gratifying waxy smoosh between your molars;
the orderly bites of first yellow, then orange, then white.
A handful sickens,
sweet lethargy trickling through your insides.
For years, I have been working
so hard for a kernel or two.
To my surprise, I now have a barrel full.
It turns out that I like the idea of candy corn
more than I like having it.