the lunch box

my mother
would make a sandwich
for each of us
for lunch. bologna
and cheese.
mustard. maybe tuna,
or egg salad,
then wrap it in saran wrap
after slicing it
diagonally.
three cookies.
an apple, a thermos
full of milk
secured by a clasp
inside the plaid box.
a note saying, be a good
boy. love, mom.
this was before
the money ran out,
before divorce, before
the car left
with my father in it
and another
woman, it was
before the lights went off.
it was paper
bag from there on out,
make you own.
there's two cents
for milk
on the table.