Tomato Sandwiches

At the last moment it rained.
Though underage, we were allowed
to drive the station wagon into the overgrown
pasture. We stopped in the ferny asparagus bed
gone to seed. Rain tap-danced on the roof!
Across the windshield the wipers pulled
the water like curtains on a puppet show,
tucking us in.

Three sisters, we dined formally to start,
unwrapping the wax paper sheets, guided
by their neat hospital corners and folds.
But biting into the pillowy white bread
the mayonnaise oozed, and the lettuce
slipped away like hair tied with silk ribbon.
Next, the tomatoes squished and slid,
spattering our faces, our laps, the seats.
We were silly, then sillier as we pointed out
the boring carrot and celery sticks, the dull
boiled eggs, whose shells we resoundingly
cracked on our heads, laughing hard enough
we had to hold our sides. It hurt.

Chronic competitors, made wary for life
in the arms of parental approval, where else
would we find a checkpoint so lax, waving us
through to someone as close as a sister?