Lunchtime

I am in the
Second grade and
It is lunchtime.
We file down the
Hall to the gymnasium,
Leave our shoes in
The hallway as though
We are entering
A mosque and
Find a place on
The hardwood floor
To sit and eat our
Brown bag lunch.
We are each given a
Small carton of milk.
My mother has
Packed me a
Sandwich of tuna
Mixed with mayo
And pickle relish,
Plus some lettuce,
A small bag of Fritos
And a banana.
I put the Fritos in
The sandwich to
Make it crunchy
And enjoy the tactile
Sensation combine
With the tastes.
I sit cross-legged,
Alone and looking
Around at the other
Children eating,
The teacher-monitor
Walking about
The gymnasium
Which serves as
Our basketball church
Rather than a
Cafeteria with
Chairs and tables.
Priorities that seem
To me familiar
And a reminder
Of who we are
And how we rank.
I muse on the
Sanctity of the
Game and think
Of the St. Louis
Haarlem
Globetrotters
My father
Watches
On TV as I
Dribble
My milk.