John Grey

He was looking for
a spare part for his Subaru
but instead,
from a hill of metal,
procured himself
a Roy Rogers
and Dale Evans lunch box,
which he proudly proclaimed
to be the holy grail of lunchboxes,
better than the Munsters,
Gilligan’s Island,
even the Brady Bunch.
“They were my dad’s favorite,”
he said to me
as he rushed back
to the car
with his prize,
hooting like a boy
younger even than me
and Subaru be damned.
“Who were they?”
I asked,
immediately cutting
myself out, posthumously.
from my grandfather’s will.
“And what’s a lunchbox”
which was like a dagger
to my father’s heart,
a dagger with
shiny insides,
a metal clasp,
and painted on top,
a cowboy and cowgirl
and a palomino
with a rusted face.
In the car ride home,
we both sat silently.
On the horse ride home,
Roy, Dale, and Dad
galloped on ahead,
never once looked back at me.

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