Third grade, pink Mickey Mouse
lunch (my mother’s bad taste).
He: tousled hair not unlike
James Dean or Mickey Rourke --
I couldn’t decide;
wanting to taste my four-layered
sandwich, sip some grape juice.
It was nearly summer and I
didn’t want his soggy bread or
the egg in between.
We took turns biting under
the oak tree and soft spring sun,
called the leaves beneath
our feet Isidore. The air
pregnant with sounds:
seesaw squeaks, backyard
shouts, the school bell ringing.
