but i failed
at trading my sandwich
in grade
school.
wrapped in wax paper,
a lame
bologna
on white bread
with a swath
of generic mustard.
how i envied the peanut
butter sandwiches
beside me,
crunchy with blueberry
jam,
the ham and cheese,
the roast beef
thinly sliced on rye
with a pickle
on the side or
the club sandwich
piled high.
no one was interested
in my poor
bologna sandwich,
hapless and dry,
the story
of my life.
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