Packed Lunch

The gas station special,

plastic-wrapped, cool to the touch.

Turkey and bland swiss,

on bread that gave too much.

Swallowed it, standing,

the fluorescent hum a drill.

Then the memory hit,

like a sudden headwind.

Wax paper, damp-soft,

from the bottom of a cooler.

The precise overlap of ham,

the single leaf of iceberg lettuce,

the cheddar, thin as regret.

She used to press it tight,

like sealing a secret.

And the bread, not some mass-produced lie,

but real, still holding

the ghost of a baker’s yeast.

It tasted of going somewhere,

even if it was just across town.

This one tastes of getting by.