The Sixth Grade Lunchroom


Dante comes close: Hell’s storm of whirling cries,
raw filth, skulls gnawing skulls, the vacant eyes
of damned divided into gloomy lots
– only our tortured souls gnawed tater tots,
canned corn, and tepid piles of greying meat.
Boy-girl, boy-girl, our class was forced to eat
bound to our seats by threat of study hall.

We’d tasted greater freedom in the fall,
but by the winter break our reputation
for airborne food and moral degradation
drove Miss O’Toole – of failing mind and heart –
to curse our names and make a seating chart.
God knows what sins condemned me to my place,
exiled from solitude and friendly face,
sandwiched between James Scott and Melvin Eames,
two petty thieves whose prepubescent dreams
were incomplete without arson and shooting.

They sang to me of gang warfare and looting,
stories they’d likely stolen off the street.
Like mockingbirds who, though they just repeat
another’s song, assault with greater noise,
Melvin and James were squawking little boys
impersonating men. I know this now,
but then I sat with knotted hands and brow,
awaiting all the horrid things they’d say,
the foul stuff that they smeared across my tray.

While I shot pleading looks to Miss O’Toole
(oblivious), James dove into a pool
of milk sloshed on his plate. Melvin fought back
with fork and knife, a swift counter-attack
of thick pâtés of gum and tuna fish,
cold, soggy fries and that day’s mystery dish.
I saw eternity in every lunch
as Melvin’s mashed potatoes drowned in punch
and James reached out to pinch my scrawny knees.

But all I have at last are memories
whose teeth grow duller with each passing year,
‘til now the grinning faces aren’t as clear
as what they ate. For we soon left O’Toole’s
haphazard watch, were bused to separate schools
and separate lives, and I can’t say what fate
befell the boys I’d loved so much to hate.
The way they talked, it’s not too far a leap
to doubt that they’ll die old, or in their sleep,
but maybe they survived their circumstances,
went on to calculus and high school dances,
careers in corporate law or real estate,
and better skills with napkin, knife, and plate.

Whatever lives they chose, I see the two
at twelve, before a trembling tray of goo,
forks poised, as I look on uneasily.
I’ll yet recall, a little queasily,
the pair who made my meals a living hell.
I think of them now, and almost wish them well.