The Jumbo Sandwich

by Brett Rutherford

On Kingview Road in Scottdale,
weeks passed sometimes
in which the only meat
was something called Jumbo Bologna.
The sign lied, since it
was pronounced BALONEY
and no one knew what was in it.

“Eyeballs and guts,” my friends said.
“’Possums and groundhogs maybe.”

Though I was proud to own
my Tom Corbett, Space Cadet lunchpail,
I never let anyone see
that Monday it was Jumbo on Wonder Bread,
and Tuesday, and Wednesday, too.
On the Thursday the credit ran out
at the corner store, and I went forth
with green peppers and margarine
on Wonder Bread. Two bites were all
I could manage before the bitter taste
compelled me to throw the rest away.

On Kingview Road in Scottdale,
dinners comprised
fried Jumbo Bologna on Wonder Bread.
Some nights it was just bread
with gravy poured over it,
gravy from bacon grease.

Pointless to sneak at night
to peek in the icebox: beer, milk,
and eggs and bacon, the wrapped
remnants of bologna for tomorrow’s lunch.

Payday was little better. With luck,
my father would toss
a pack of hot dogs on the table
announcing, “Here’s dinner.”
He gambled every penny
and lost it all.

The meatless meal
of canned peas mushed up
in mashed potatoes —
with luck a smattering of gravy
added — my mother,
who had waitressed once,
called it “schmung.”

Since Father required
his breakfast before
the trek to the glass factory,
eggs, bacon, and Wonder Bread
were always there:
that can be said,
although a doctor looked
at my pencil-thin arms and asked,
“Don’t you ever feed this child?”

Strange it seemed, that others
knew how to eat, no matter
their poverty. Grandparents
decades on welfare had a garden
and when we went there,
we feasted on corn,
and fat tomatoes
green onions and radishes.

Sometimes I visited
a schoolmate’s home.
Italian immigrants,
just scraping by.
Smell the kitchen:
they ate like gods.

On Kingview Road in Scottdale,
the smell of myrtle
must linger still,
(the one fine spice
that made bologna palatable.)

So once a month,
in memory of poverty,
which after all,
is never far away,
I eat a Jumbo sandwich,
scented and sweet
with the poor peoples’
frankincense.