The Sandwich Poem by Bill Galvin

So, I am making myself a sandwich, and that's not so much the odd thing,
As that it is before ten in the morning and I'm not hungry now, but will be.
The early hour asks of me who does this, since I'm not going on any picnic.

Soon, an early image appears of my Mom and me back in the 1950s,
And, much earlier in the day than this, before each of our weekdays began.
She'd rush around the kitchen probing pantry, bread box, and fridge
For whatever could fill a kid's lunchbox (the official Hopalong Cassidy kind) .
And, as I moped through cereal and milk, sometimes there'd be a choice…
Did I want bologna or peanut butter and jelly? Need she have asked?
Most times it would just be a surprise at the noontime grand opening.

She'd tell me to wait until 7: 45, then hustle straight off to second grade;
She'd remind me to lock the door behind me, not lose the key,
And to be sure to come right home after school and wait for her.
Mom would then run off to catch the elevated train a few blocks away.
She'd be sharply dressed in blouse, skirt, jacket and flats,
Long, wavy brunette hair flowing over her shoulders.
That noisy, clattering train would take her to downtown Boston
And her proud secretarial job at a big insurance company.
I'd watch her from a window till she was a few three-deckers away.

At school, the morning would drag on, and some kids would sneak peeks
At the big, ancient schoolroom clock with the Roman numerals;
And when at last the loud click of the minute hand meant it had struck XII,
Like dogs of Pavlov, we all put down what we were doing,
And would cast disparaging glances over at the smart girl in the room
If she dared to ask the teacher a question at the last second…
Then, in orderly fashion, we were allowed access to the coat room,
Where the brown lunch bags and cowboy lunch boxes were stashed.

Oh my, the aroma in that room! The mingling of so many kitchen cultures!
The aroma was uplifting enough to float us on back to our desks
Where every noontime lunch was like a mini-thanksgiving meal…
In spite of the occasional groan of some kid whining "not-this-again".
And I can still hear the unclicking of those lunch box latches,
The unravelling of paper bags (taken home and reused the whole week) ,
And the careful opening of the Cut-Rite wax-paper sandwich wrap
Spread out neatly over the desk like a picnic blanket.
That collective aroma permeated the whole classroom by then,
And the kid-chatter quieted down with the efficient devouring
Of even the most disappointing sliced liverwurst on white bread.

Today, a simple sandwich brings back a pleasant memory of Mom…
Of a time when things weren't great, but they were good enough…
And of the care and love that was packed daily into one kid's lunchbox.