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, jäger-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.

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