I asked my part time workers once upon
a time, when they were still around,
Francisco and albert,
jose and Wallace why they didn't
bring their lunch to work.
why were they spending ten dollars
a day
on greasy fast food and sugary drinks,
when they could make a lunch
and bring it with them to the job.
the money they would save.
they were all bone skinny when I took
them on. having traveled far,
across deserts and woods, being chased
by banditos at every turn.
but now they were rounded out, cheeks
filled, their clothes tight upon them.
why don't you pack a lunch I asked them,
and Francisco stood up, being
the leader of this pack of painters
and laborers, cement mixers and rough
carpenters, and he said proudly,
thumping his fist against his barrel
chest and said we are men,
we don't cook.
I laughed and shook my head,
and said, i'm talking sandwiches here.
two pieces of bread with something
in the middle. they waved their hands
at me, dismissing me in their own language,
then went back to eating their stuffed
bags full of Kentucky fried chicken.
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