America Lunch Line

It’s a line, a line of people waiting 

to be fed, like ones we see in those 

black and white pictures of other

earlier people lined up for food at 

a Depression Era soup kitchen. We 

still have lines like that, usually feeding

the homeless hungry folks we have 

a surprising number of. But this isn’t 

like those lines. This line, that stretches

a surprising distance, is made up of

a mix of people – high school and college

age guys and girls, groups of people off

on their lunch breaks, whole families with

small children and grandparents. This is

a cross-section of the present day hungry

lined up at a sandwich shop, a national

brand brings them all together. It’s a slow

line with little talking, except when they get

to order, order the size they want and all

the ingredients. They step in a sideways gait

taking them through all the add-ons,  lettuce

tomatoes, mayo, onions, etc. They plan well 

and are all ready to pay, perhaps tip, for all

the service and product. These aren’t folks

suffering through the Depression or through

homelessness. These are representative folks

eating representative American meals – and

seem content to line up like this for lunch.

      Growing Up Monsters

And then we round them all up,

the monsters we made and ones

that others made up for us. They

were hiding, but easy to find, in 

closets, under beds, in the attic, in 

the cellar, in dark and dank places,

in places we knew well and other 

places we only imagined. We got

them all together by the front door

with their fangs and fur, their scales

and talons, with their hot hissing

and their frightening silences. These

creatures had held us in check for

so long that seeing them there all

together whining and wiggling and

even still trying to spook us, gets us

back where they held us for so long.

But this is a new day, the childish being

inside us could now deal with them all.

We’ve grown out of all this. Like so many

other childhood things they have lost

their place in our world. Adult monsters,

the new ones are real and don’t hide, are

are outside the front door waiting their

turn at us – right after we finally get rid 

of these leftovers from our childhoods.

       Where We Are Going

An itinerary works well for us.

The one we made up ourselves

Or the one put together by our

Travel agent or cruise line. They

Sequence out the stops and starts

Of our journey, the angles and loops

Of our schedule. They stand for our

Future, the one we feel we can sign 

Onto, the one, two, three of it. It’s

A shame that we don’t get an itinerary

For our lives: stop here, start there,

Here’s the place to begin, then time

To end that. Imagine being handed

An itinerary as we set out – friendships,

Education, occupation, love life, wins,

Loses, all the bits of what is to come

Set out, listed, planned. But the only

Itinerary we get for our lives comes to

Us late in the journey, a retrospective

Map, a played out biography. We get to

Fill this in on our own if we wish. But

Some of us, perhaps most of us, end

Up with a sketchy obituary someone 

Else lines up for us, an itinerary full of

What we might have told them or what

The records show about us, our small 

Sad itinerary for all to see.