Poem by Lindsay Barba

Ain’t no such thing as a free lunch

On the picket line, we bring Daddy
and the other teachers a bucket 
of KFC. There’s no line drawn 
in white across the blacktop like 
I expected there to be. Daddy stands 
with Mrs. Childers and Mr. Watson 
in jeans and T-shirts. The only one 
not looking funny out of dress clothes 
is Jerry, the Custodian, his coveralls
still coated in dirt. Daddy says 
the school board is close to giving 
up and giving in, maybe one week
more. It’s a good thing, too, he says
softer, because it’s no fun playing
poor. I don’t think he knows Mommy 
came with me last week to my school, 
stood in the hall with Mrs. Mulgrew 
as I took my seat in homeroom. 
Her head was bowed, lips pursed, 
like when our old Labrador was put 
to sleep. Now I spend mornings 
on my own line with the kids from 
public housing. Our eyes down, 
hands open, cheeks blazing,
the rest of the school 
staring, 
whispering, 
knowing,
we won’t eat today
without our tokens. 
​

Click on the file below to listen to Lindsay read her poem:

aint_no_such_thing_as_a_free_lunch.m4a
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Lindsay Barba is a grant writer by day, poetry writer by night. She is a lifelong Northeast Ohioan and resides in Akron with her cat, Bundesliga.

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