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Haiku Free Verse Prosies
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Carnation Instant Breakfast—or rather,
a white box called Generic
with green letters and a tinny trickle
of while granules, just like laundry soap.
That was for the days we had no milk.
Once I made myself a sandwich
from a new loaf of bread,
ham, mustard, lettuce, a tomato sliced
just right. But when I bit
into it, I lost my appetite
and threw it away, uneaten.
Later, my mother brandished it,
one-bite guilty from the wastebasket, saying
is this what I work so hard for?
A roll of dimes
from her pocketbook,
scraping for spare change in the half-light
of the back seat
on the way to the babysitter.
I’d take my mother’s stolen labor to the store,
exchanging it for little bursts of sweetness.
At Emma’s front door—at Emma’s green-lawned,
shiny-kettle door—I’d ply her
with the bright colors and the taste on the tongue—
at her front door, not invited in, we’d stand
and eat that precious cargo together.
Frances Donovan
October 2003
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