White Bread
By Grant Maher


I’m from a place
Few people would care to be from;
A non-descript street
In a non-descript city
Lined with non-descript trees
And non-descript cars.

I’m from a home
Where ghosts speak in certain rooms
To anyone under five years old;
Grandma fell down the stairs in that house
And died.

I’m from a family
That’s impossible to define;
We’re white all right—very, very Caucasian—
Not there’s anything wrong with that…
Or is there? Is there something wrong with that?

I’m from a place where
It’s possible to be savagely mauled inside
Yet on the outside look perfectly fine.
I’ll bet lots of people are from a place like that;
Or am I the only one?

I’m from food;
Plain white bread.
Nobody in my family eats it,
But nonetheless—shouldn’t there be plain white bread
Somewhere in our house?
Maybe Mommy and Daddy keep the loaf hidden in their bedroom;

Someday I’m going to sneak in and destroy it.