artwork: ralph murre
DAD’S
LUNCH BOX
by Donna Hilbert
Dad climbs down
the telephone pole,
stretches out under
a pepper tree,
opens his lunch box:
black metal,
substantial like a
vault,
or a government
building
in a Balkan country.
Under its dome
wire arms hold
a Thermos of coffee.
On the bottom floor,
of mayonnaise, white
bread.
For dessert,
butterscotch
cream-center cookies.
Dad unwraps a
sandwich, eats.
He pours coffee into
the cup
his Thermos lid
makes,
dips a cookie,
watches it bloat,
then holds his lips
to the rim,
slips the sweet bits
into his mouth.
I like to think
he savors pleasure
before he stands the
box on one end,
touches a forefinger
to his tongue,
his damp fingertip
gleaning crumbs
to feed the sparrows
who wait
in slender leaves.
Then, one foot
over the other,
he climbs the pole
again.
~ first published in
PEARL
