Somebody told me
the Doritos guy
died recently.

Although I wasn’t
paralyzed
at hearing this news,
a sadness overcame me,
one that leaves
a crumbling, artificial
powdered-cheese sensation
in my throat,
with bags of guilt to follow.

I wonder
what he thought about his life,
this Doritos guy,
that all we know him now as is
the Doritos guy
and nothing more.

What was his name?
Was it Joe Dorito?
Steve Dorito?
Was his last name even Dorito?
I bet it was something simple
and easy-to-remember like
Smith or Jones.

I wonder
what his final words were,
lying on his deathbed,
knowing his greatest gift to humanity
was a mass-produced tortilla chip.

Was he a religious man?
His chips were all triangulated
like the Holy Trinity—
or maybe I’m overthinking this.

I wonder if he even liked
Doritos.
Maybe he preferred potato chips
or raw vegetables
instead.

I’m sure his final words
had nothing to do with
Doritos
at all.

I can see him sitting up,
accepting his mass-produced fate,
calling a nurse to scratch his foot
or change another colostomy bag,
when, all of a sudden,
a blinding light,
his final breath,
one last collapse back down to earth
with an overwhelming
crunch.

————

Eric K. Auld has been writing poetry since he carved a haiku in his mother’s womb at the age of -3 months. He is currently a Lecturer in English at SUNY Adirondack in Queensbury, NY and Berkshire Community College in Pittsfield, MA. He is an aspiring Nihilist and is working hard until he doesn’t have to anymore.