I never realized
when I was young
on those Friday evenings
at the end of the month
when we had a special meal
of sardines and crackers
that we were eating
poor man’s food.

And when my mother said
she wasn’t really hungry
because of a lump in her throat
or a pain in her chest
I’d worry a little bit about her health
but be grateful
that there were more sardines
for the rest of us.

On Saturdays
when we had that gourmet meal
made from the left over eggs
and cheese
and the last of the dried out bread
and if we were lucky
some cut up cubes
of an old piece of ham,
I didn’t know
the recipe came
from necessity
and not
a culinary magazine.

On Sunday mornings
when the people were so kind to us
as we savored
our weekly pastry treat
and a Dixie cup
of lemonade
after sitting in church
eating
a small piece of bread
and taking
a sip of wine
I didn’t realize
that this too
was poor man’s food.