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.