Hold the Mayo

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.