I Don't Think I Write Sad Poems

So here's a new version of an idea I've tried to write a few times. It's a bit exaggerated but I don't think it's tragic. More the general lack of perspective of youth and something I can chuckle at a little. The last two versions of this poem kind of bummed Valerie out so here goes...

Free Lunch

Under the prison bright tubes of cafeteria florescent,
you enter the lunch line, always with a buddy
because this is elementary and loneliness is solved by clumping,
and it welcomes you, the exploding mush smell of peas,
of chicken nuggets, of tater tots, burnt edges of lasagna
something called Mexican Pizza, even the dreaded Fish Day,
maybe a sliver of perfume from the large ladiness of the workers
as they ice cream scoop everything but ice cream
into little apartments on your tray and gosh, you hope
that some sad sap isn’t a kid to one of these ladies
and she brings home this tripe for dinner, too;
as you grab a carton of milk, (always chocolate, unless you’re weird)
and now are at the cash register, your reckoning place,
the thing you dread more than cursive, times tables, or
the suddenness of the girls’ puberty erupting on their chests,
because you are poor because your mom is single because
life is that way sometimes and the state is now stepping in
as Daddy and picking up some of the slack by giving
you free lunches at school and all you have to say most days
is “Your Name” and they’ll check the list,
the magic list of poor kids, that you dread
will end up read aloud like a note passed in class
and on the best days, the register lady will know your pleading
face and just imperceptibly nod at you, an “I gotcha” look
because this such a trust fall, and you’ve piled excuses, in case
your friends noticed no money and you’ll always say,
“The kids of school employees get free lunches” or
“I have a tab” which is an outdated term but still
on the periphery of language and works until a friend asks for a tab
but the worst, the worst, worst days are when your buddy
is telling you a joke or the plot to a comic book and
the register lady cuts in to say, “$1.45” without recognition because she’s new
and you have to say, “Your Name” and then even worse,
“I’m on the List” which is like pinning on a Star of David
made from Nascar Stickers and Bail Money
and her giant, sweaty finger moves down the page with a world’s slowness
while the other kids pile and look over shoulders to see
what’s the holdup and a neon sign descends saying, “POOR, POOR, POOR!”
as she utters, “Your Name, One Free Lunch” to your retreating back
because you’re going to sit in the bathroom and do your times tables
on your napkin, figuring out how much lemonade you’ll need
to sell all summer to pay for every single lunch in 5th grade.