Cul-De-Sac by Andrea Cohen

Cul-De-Sac

Like all tyrants,

my mother made

decrees. The last

straw was the law

that said: no frogs

inside the house.

The lousy universe!

I was seven and ready

to flee with nothing. At

least take a sandwich,

my mother said,

tucking a foil brick

into the kerchief

I’d tied to a stick. I

was a real hobo.

I barely watched her

watch me walk off.

I got all the way

to the cul-de-sac

and sat down to eat.

It was a sandwich

full of grief––

grief and salt,

grief and tomatoes,

grief and cheese.

How far into

far did I go?

How is it

my glass of milk

was still cold

when I got home?