Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose

Today I chew the peanut butter, sweet
Grape jelly, white bread sandwich which she made
For me those sixty years ago. I eat
Not just a memory refusing to fade
But actually the groundnut spread and dark
Fruit layer in between the gold crusts’ bread.
Well, not the one she packed, because the stark
Fact, unavoidable, is she is dead.
She didn’t place this sandwich in my sack
This morning here in Africa–and I
Am not a white-blond, smooth-skinned boy whose snack
She offered, and I blink a saddened eye,
But sweetness still is sweet in this other
Meal, handed as a gift from my mother.