Sopaipilla

(Poetry Scales 47)  

As a child fried breads were a magical mystery
Pockets of air filled with honey
In the intervening years I’ve seldom enjoyed them
Finding that they don’t pass muster
Perhaps it is best to just relish the memory
Adventures non-quotidian
As repetition is the root of vulgarity
Encores spoil the experience
A lot of life is such sopaipilla and honey
To be enjoyed not stored in bulk