On slightly dry white,
it conjures up
foreign lunchrooms
and sour lunchboxes
and the clamped-shut feeling
of a stomach that can't do its job
for worry of a new place.

Crusts cut off and insides
lightly lined with butter
it brings back Gramma
and days of being well-cared for

Rough-hewn
from the Honeybaked bone,
wrapped in romaine,
dipped in mustard,
inhaled over the sink,
of being a grownup
for the first time ever:
not well, perhaps,
or elegantly,
but old enough finally
to deny yourself
something good now
against the hope
of something better
down the road.

What for you is my lunch
for me is a portal,
a trip back
to a simpler life
that may or may not
have existed.

What for me is a stab at meaning,
and a clumsy one at that,
put down quickly like packaged ham
on commercial rye,
for you, I hope,
is a thread to worry
(or not)
as you please
toward the root of your own
sweet and sour
and slightly salty past.

At least,
that is how
I present it.

xxx
c

Image by stevendepolo via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.