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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