Upon a table, veiled by plastic bag,
Left like a bride, alone at altar, lies
A sandwich of bologna. None to nag
At the small child, who has gone to disguise
Himself a hero, more flamboyant than
Those bland, thick white tiles and pink slab of meat.
One needn't to be a clairvoyant man
To know the fate of this meal incomplete
The white of its soft covers will be green,
Bread sagging from the cold sweat of what sits
Between. When fuzzy fortresses grown glean
Their lands, they claim only the garbage pits.
But see now, the child returns hungry now
Enjoying mother's love with a smile now.
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