Eight
Three little boys
perched in the stairway
selling “sandwiches”
made from imagination
and habit
Two grown up girls
pretending to eat
the wares of children who
were made from adoration
and stardust
Two grand parents
watching from the couch
matching smiles for girls
who grew up out of
soil nearly 40 years deep
One husband, just a boy
taking a nap until his shift
at the sandwich shop
4 thoughts on "Eight"
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Sweet and cyclic – returning to where we start, doing what we see.
Ultimately, the poem reminds me of a meditation on the ways love, habit, and imagination bind generations together (if we are lucky), and how even the smallest rituals—like pretend sandwiches—echo with the history and hope of a family. Beautiful and meaningful.
This is really engaging!
I love the movement of your memories. I couldn’t stop reading. 🩷
I really like this one!