The Sandwich Song

These old bird eyes
First caught the crust.
That piece of subtle delight
The color of bird shit, or dust.

It peeked coyly, innocent
just there on the cusp
on Third and Occidental,
in a tin of refuse and rubbish.

Slowly, I went down.
Fear not, reader,
I went down.

This old chair,
it brought me down;
It’s brought me all over this town.

Rolled up to the bin,
reached my hand up, then in,
dug it around;
the sandwich was found.

I peeled away its brown paper dress,
Just like a lady I met once
up on 7th and Chess.

And then- really? Really! Yes!
An entire sandwich.
A glorious mess.

Wrinkled potato bread,
thin-spread Jiff and jam.
The thing glowed stark-white in these
filth-colored hands.

I couldn’t hold back my rapture-
I did a little chair-twist,
I shook and I shouted,
I raised up my fist.

And a little schoolgirl walked by
And did not laugh, but she smiled.

This was my best day in many long whiles.

by Hanna Brooks Olsen

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