Sandwich

Sometimes you need a sandwich,

especially when it's not all you need.

Every culture calls it something

else. It's bread and something else.

Sometimes you need dry and warm.

Or you need to rationalize failure

or to read about Sufism. Sometimes

you need to be touched, seen, heard. 

But's that's all beside the point,

isn't it? when you're stomach 

and your gums ache from 

hunger. I'm making sandwiches

today. To be given to the homeless.

I see them beside the street 

where I drop off the sandwiches. 

They live in tents. Sleep on 

grass. In the wealthiest empire

ever to exist. Whatever. They

can't eat outrage. It's the sandwich

that matters, sitting there on a 

plate, a plank, or your lap. 

The distributors want bread,

bologna, cheese, and mustard.

Never mayonnaise. Someone

I'll never know lifts the sandwich,

opens their mouth, chomps,

tastes, chews, swallows. Feels

just a little bit better. I hope. 

What do I know? Nothing. I know

sometimes I've needed a sandwich.

To get from one moment

to the next. And some water. 

And a place to sleep. And sleep.

But it starts with a sandwich.

Something very particular

in the exact place you are

is what you need. What I need.

Some bread and something else.

To eat. To eat. To eat.