The Sugar Game (a Poem)

We are the apex of stolen
victory, the pin's point target
funnelled.  Joy from the tap
goes down slightly sticky.

We cheer with cotton floss, honey.
Paper adheres to our applause.
Spectators cloying, we test insulin
resistance.  Futile, we try to rise

last among them. Hope seconds'
hesitation grants us spoons
of extra-syrup affection. Sweet
teeth not indulged at home.

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