Wanted: Deli Sandwich

The photogenic specimen

depicted on the cafe’s sandwich-

board at the top of the stairwell

in English and Korean

beckoned to be fed and eaten,

like the voracious vagina

of a sexily spreading princess

with powers and prowess

voluptuous, delicious–

But when I entered to buy

my double espresso with a shot

of milk on the side

to protect my stomach,

no such sandwich existed

in the naked display case

conveying the cafe’s

culinary soul.  In a hurry

anyway, I ordered a potato

sandwich endowed with seven

styles of starch and ate it

on the way to class, unable

to digest my disappointment,

drowning the disappearing

triangle of twin white bread

mattresses in my mandibles

and maw with caffeinated gouts,

punctuating each sip

with a shambling step as I shuffled

up the stairs to greet my

colleagues and students,

pausing to brush my teeth

and wash the remains

of my hungry face

before wiping it dry with three

folded paper towels thrown

in the trash, the washroom’s other

stomach, the one that ate

whatever anyone fed it,

no matter how it tasted.

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