Par Quatre

I hate KitKat bars.

I could leave this poem at

that, but then I’d get

the infernal why?

So I’ll lay it on the table

with its wrapper:

I loathe the corporate pressure

I'm forced to share, with anyone

else in the room, its sanctimonious

fingers of four, unselfishly

snapped for another. If you

give me puppy eyes, know

that it’s the middle—

lifted in the fury of

my gaze.

There’s no space

in the KitKat logo. A single,

melting pillar. It must have

been TikTok's muse

and just mentioning

it will birth it in my

scrolls.

It’s more wafer

than deliquesce. Its brown

I can never wipe off. If I wanted

a bloody cookie, I would have

bought a bloody cookie. Like the day

in Hermie’s Drugs, looking for

oatmeal raisin

in its rowdy cellophane.

Spotting the KitKat

while I reached. It added

7 seconds

to my jaunt.

A woman and her toddler

began to stroll across the street

a minute later, as I darted

from the parking lot.

They were creamed by a

heedless driver while they did.

I was the car behind—

would have been ahead 

if not for Nestlé,

stopping on a dime;

if I hadn't loved cats & kittens,

since 1 or 2 years old,

or been smitten by all things red;

if I hadn’t dillydallied,

pondered I’d have to split, divvy

up the four when I got home,

and goddamn it I hate

KitKat. Its lie of satiation,

of easy, painless math.

Andreas Gripp

September 4, 2025

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