Lunch time on the playground
and I sit with my barnyard lunchbox
on the curb by the foursquare court.
The milk in my thermos is salted
with shattered glass, the fourth time
now thanks to grab-and-smash bullies.
The hot-lunch poor boy sandwich
for which I traded Mom’s P B & J
is already gobbledy gone,
and I clutch a crinkly packet
of Lay’s potato chips—BBQ today.
During this part of my meal
I am left to my own devices:
I bite a notch in the bag’s corner,
not so gently squeeze out the air,
and then MASH MASH MASH
the chips to a crumbly spicy pulp—
as my tormentors have done for me
so many many times before.
Now I beat them to the punch.
And I have learned to like it.
Fifty years later I still mash my chips
in preemptive strikes, destroying things
I love before anyone else gets the chance.