school lunches

there was a mystery
to each lunch,
peering over shoulders
to see who got what.
you were always in wonder
at the kid
who had sliced
carrots and raisons,
even almonds,
the delicate sandwich
with the crust trimmed off.
the boy with the plaid
box and a thermos
of milk, or juice.
always an apple,
or peach, a washed piece
of fruit,
a small bag of home
baked cookies, tucked in,
oatmeal. even a note
sometimes, folded
over with the words
have a nice day, I love
you son, written in ink.
and you with your brown
bagged baloney
sandwich carved off a thick
tube, stroked quickly
with yellow mustard
by your own hand
on white bread.
a handful of potato chips,
crumbled from the bottom
of a bag,
and the small stack
of coins for milk
jangling in your pant pocket,
formerly your brother's,
being saved for something
else.