A sandwich guy.
Tee shirt
And pants.
Library card,
Notebook poems.
I flunked calligraphy, and sometimes I think red means go.
They took away my license
To fish.
And if someone asks what poetry is
It’s in the wrist, and every dial in your brain
Is screaming.
naïve haircuts 
Cornelius Fredericks’s sandwich
cost the ultimate price.
He lost consciousness forever.
His brain was screaming,
His voice too.
Between the sliced bread
was a love supreme,
money and power meeting
a mouth sickened by the taste.
The sixteen-year-old’s lunch
was breathtaking.
Wheat, white or rye
thrown altogether.
A Mayday heard
near the end of June.
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Well written, KBR!
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I’m sorry I missed this when it was published. I was talking a short blogging break. But this is a wonderful poem to return to. Well done!
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Thanks Used Life. Hope your break was fruitful.
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I like this one very much; I’m copying it into my commonplace book
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Awesome! Thank you!
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