The meatloaf poem
Today for lunch I made myself a
cold meatloaf sandwich on lightly
toasted white bread with American
cheese, ketchup, mayonnaise, lettuce.
This is a quite a strange combination
of ingredients to put on bread I think.
My sandwiches don’t often warrant scrutiny
before being chewed up and washed down,
Except maybe for tofu, avocado
and sprouts in a pita pouch. Veggie
Sandwiches always make me think
I am doing right by eating this mess -
Not, damn this is good, but
Yep, plenty of vitamins here...
I’ll live longer by eating this way...
But meatloaf sandwiches are different.
I learned about meatloaf sandwiches
from my father who loved them best.
Even as he was eating his Sunday hot
meatloaf dinner, he was planning lunch
For the next day when he could
pull the ingredients from the frig,
build the sandwich of his dreams,
sit alone in the kitchen and savor.
Nowadays I think brightly of my father
with every meatloaf sandwich I eat.
My mother made BLTs, and the smell
of bacon frying is forever tied to her.
My mother’s mother made egg salad and
tomato soup when she watched over me.
My father’s mother made marmalade toast –
one slice for her and one for the dog.
But meatloaf is the stuff of patriarchs.
My father used to make idle threats
to cut off the arm of anyone who dared
reach for the last piece of meatloaf.
To deny him his meatloaf sandwich
was to risk amputation by butter knife.
I’d pretend at dinner to pilfer the leftovers,
sliding my hand stealthily toward the prize.
Wham! Down would come that dull knife.
I would giggle uncontrollably then try again.
Such warm memories from a cold sandwich.
I get no such joy from ham and cheese on rye.
12:09:14 PM  Poems
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