Ballad of a Blandwich
A poetic one-star review in three stuffed stanzas
There’s a dagwood of difference
Between a sandwich made lovingly
And one that’s compiled
According to corporate recipe
The second’s a careless affair
Of handheld apathy
A stack-up of usual suspects
Wanted yet wanton in their
Flavorless complicity
Cured meats without curation
But for a vague label
As a product or protein
Preserved for the dubious purpose
Of subpar sustenance
In gristly perpetuity
Paired with a slapped-on sliver of
Some coagulation called cheese
Squared or rounded
To impart abounding boredom
And precisely-sliced frivolity
Impinging on a filler
Of placative vegetation
Like a bed of listless lettuce
Wilted and jilted by greener heads
Of finer-formed leafy activity
Or a pre-ripe tomato
With too much crunch
Flaunting its perfectly red complexion
Of pesticide-dusted persuasion
For the desk-bound drudges
Rushing to lunch lustily
Or a foggy and ovular onion
With its jellyfish tentacles
And tongue-searing tendencies
Letting loose a caustic juice
Onto curdled and common mayo
Whose gross osmosis
Infiltrates two semi-stale flanks of
Corrugated bread-ends
Sided by a consolation
Condiment or element
Like a limp dill pickle
Farmed, fermented and forgotten
By a daydream majority
To be tossed in the trash
With a mess of oily residue
Crumbs and waxed paper
Stubbornly clinging
To the tacky lattice
Of plastic-fashioned basketry
