When Ends Meet

I went into the kitchen,
to make myself a sandwich,
Only to find,
A rolled up plastic bag
with two familiar shapes inside:
No one ever wants the crusts,
And there are always two,
Abandoned at the bottom
of every twisted sheath of cellophane.

Even though they were just as kneaded,
in the very beginning
as the rest of the loaf:
To avarice children,
With dirty hands,
It’s as if they’re not really bread;
nothing more than stale book ends
to push aside,
in pursuit of a flawless row,
of perfectly cut portions.

I stared at them for a moment,
and felt so sorry for them;
Alpha and Omega
Facing each other,
Little bare backs
Exposed and tanned.
And made myself a sandwich.