Sandwich
When I see a generic sandwich on soft white bread
it makes me think of my mom, and of all of the
sandwiches she packed me for lunch that I
transported to school squished in my backpack,
pressing up against my Science book as if my
tuna sandwich was riding in a busy elevator
When I hear the word sandwich, sometimes
I think of myself being stuck between two
people on the subway and not knowing
which of them keeps farting because neither
has lifted their leg or made any indication
that they were the flatulent train rider
I never want to be sandwiched between
anyone or anything, unless I came back
as the perfect hoagie, and then I would be
turkey and melted Swiss cheese with bacon
and a generous globule of mayonnaise,
pillowed by the crunch of shredded lettuce
But I also think of my dad making me countless
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and when
I learned how to make toast myself so I could
watch the Skippy melt onto the bread to form
the most delicious liquid peanut surprise that
the Smucker’s would swirl into like Spiral Jetty
© Jonathan Greene, October 12, 2026
