Greg sits with me
at lunch today.
It’s the first time anyone
has even walked close to
my table, and something
about it makes me want to cry.
Want a cookie? Greg says,
holding out one with so many chips
it’s more chocolate than cookie.
I packed two today.
Thanks, I say.
He shrugs.
We have them all the time, he says.
Mama still likes to bake, even though . . .
He doesn’t finish his thought, just
takes a big bite of his peanut butter
and jam sandwich, probably so he
doesn’t have to talk.