a stack of white bread

there was a lot
of white bread on the table,
growing up.
butter,
slabs of bologna,
yellow mustard,
yellow cheese,
powdered milk when the real
milk ran out.
occasionally
my mother would fall
in love
with a fireman,
or a delivery man,
or a married man with a ring
in his pocket.
the refrigerator
would become more
full then, for awhile,
but there was a price
to pay.