I HAVE A LONGING

I have a longing for the sandwich I took to school
for eight years with mother’s great compassion. A white lunch box
an embroidered napkin, how the puddles loved me on the way
to the Wolovelsky Center. Afterwards
a clumsy tin pail with fenugreek and a green cucumber
every morning to my daily work
different jobs: construction welder, transportation, clerk.
In 1951 I saw a newspaper ad:
driver wanted with a jeep license
I put on a white shirt and went off.
People waited in line. One chewed his fingernails the second read a book
a wholesaler from the industrial park emerged from his office and asked
what will you do my children if the oil runs out
                        in the middle of the way?
The one who got the job was the one who said:
with me it never happens. 

I HAVE A LONGING