Peppermint told me to write a poem about a sandwich. I think this one should be made into a much longer poem, but that’ll have to wait till I have more thyme.
The bald man’s lunch is less than nothing special
two slices of outlet white bread held
together by a single sliver of baloney, no mustard
no catsup, no mayonaise. Nothing
but a stomach troubled by past indiscretions
with overflowing triple-decker clubs
loud music, jager-bombs and
quick dicking in backroom bathrooms.
On any old night, sandwiched between two girls
with black asses like pumpernickel, he
was the turkey. He got carved up in
a back alley, gained some scars and
lost his appetite.