Poetry: Weird Sandwiches
Published: November 6, 2009Section: Arts, Etc.
“I don’t like people who order weird
sandwiches.”
He told me, looking up from his
caramel macchiato
with a lip ring where his lip should be.
He didn’t clean the grime under his
fingernails
because that would show that he cared
about the grime, and
about the fingernails.
He didn’t cut his hair, either—
That would show that he
cared about his hair,
and about the cut, too.
Taking a pull from his
clove cigarette,
he told me everything
he did not care about,
and apparently,
he did not care about anything.
Although he cared,
about not caring,
about not anything.
So then I thought,
as I inhaled his exhales of
cigarette smoke and
apathy,
he cared about not anything—
And not anything, clearly,
is everything.
“Another caramel machiatto, please.”
He said, careful with his lip ring.
And I thought,
he might as well
have ordered
a weird sandwich.