Like all tyrants,
my mother made
decrees. The last
straw was the law
that said: no frogs
inside the house.
The lousy universe!
I was seven and ready
to flee with nothing. At
least take a sandwich,
my mother said,
tucking a foil brick
into the kerchief
I’d tied to a stick. I
was a real hobo.
I barely watched her
watch me walk off.
I got all the way
to the cul-de-sac
and sat down to eat.
It was a sandwich
full of grief––
grief and salt,
grief and tomatoes,
grief and cheese.
How far into
far did I go?
How is it
my glass of milk
was still cold
when I got home?