The Sandwich: A Poem
Through the bellows of the kids, I sit, waiting.
The milk carton is sipped.
The potato chip bag is torn.
The carrot sticks are devoured.
“Aren’t you going to eat that?” He retorts.
She giggles. “That’s disgusting. I hate egg-salad sandwiches.”
He lifts me up, and I plop on the floor.
They laugh.
0 comments