Here still in laceration
You are my sandwich
Though chewed
And inside.
You are
The lunch of my life.
You are dolcelatte
Aubergine, pancetta.
And I drank a coffee
And a can of drink
Outside the cafe
Italia Uno, Charlotte Street.
And three cigarettes finish
The dream that I am
The poet
Who believes the man
Who made his sandwich
Knows him.
That to see me sat
where I sat
to eat
Was for me
To reveal me
Replete
With drifting notions
And to see me
Complete.