My parents never bought cheese crackers.

It was snack time.
Fluorescent lights
reflected off the packaging of the
confined square crackers sandwiching
alarmingly orange cheese
that I knew was oh-so-good.

I had to have them.

Dreams of processed heaven blocked
all worry of consequence, and I
snatched my personal packet of happy.
Seconds from its hiding place in my bag,
a call of outrage from a tattle tale one backpack hook over
left me stuck, chubby hand outreached.

I shuffled back to return
my prized possession to its place on the cart,
eyes focused on the colorful alphabet carpet below.
I tried to ignore my teacher filling out the pink slip,
spelling out my failed robbery.

My parents never bought cheese crackers.