i make packed lunches for non-existent children

i ask out the window if they want 
their sandwiches cut straight 
or diagonally. outside it is raining 
more than i expected but i pretend 
it's bright & there is an playground whirling 
up the street.
i peel the crusts off with a knife
& consider the heat of a great factory oven 
responsible for them. my children 
are picky & i don't mind. i eat the crusts myself--
pressing the pieces into my mouth as i work.
soon it will be dark & time for them 
to get in the bathtub full of air.
they will protest but i want them 
to be clean. i picture them 
sitting at long lunch tables
& i hope they have friends. i can't remember anymore
whether or not i had friends. i put
extra fruit snacks into their lunches.
i decide that i have two & a half children.
the half child says home & sits on the counter
to watch over me like an angel.
the half child is my favorite. 
there is very little fruit
in fruit snacks, but they are good 
proving to other children that you are normal
& that your father isn't a poet
who perches at his desk like a raven.
next i fill Ziploc bags 
with grapes & carrots. healthy food, yes.
they might just throw the stuff out 
but it is good to have it there anyway.
the children are helping the ohter children
pull the hot orange sun down.
a rubber ball. i had a red rubber ball 
i used to cradle like a child.
my children are all more beautiful
than anyone else's. this is why we are
lonely together. their mouths turn 
like bottlecaps in my heart
& i call for them to come inside.
a staircase grows taller or more reptile.
my half child is hungry so i feed him
gummy worms. my baby bird.
juice boxes are crucial, then a bag of chips.
i won't have them feeling hungry.
i consider lecturing them
when they come inside about how many days 
i felt hungry when i was a small bird 
but i don't. i want them to flourish.
i want their eyes to turn to jems
each & every day. their footsteps tumble
up the stairs. i open the door for them.
instruct them to take off their shoes.
the half child beats his wings & calls because
it is night time for the family. 
i'm not sure i would make a good
mother or father. i'm scared of being selfish.
i'm scared of packing terrible lunches.
i write them love notes 
to make up for falling short.
pleading, i tell them i am just one person.
i am easily distracted. i love their beaks.
i love their talons. i sign them 
& fold them as small as a note can be folded.
the truth is, i have no patience for noise. 
i send the half child to his cage
& the other children to the bath. 
i zip their lunch boxes shut as they scurry.
my mice in the walls. my pigeons.