Eating Sandwiches

Eating Sandwiches

We eat ham sandwiches
in the lobby of the hotel
where he works.
He is soiled and dark
under the arms and eyes
from bending over soup
and chafing dishes all day.
The luxurious flesh shreds
willingly, as if in penance.
Iberico. The best.
We watch the revolving door
deliver the oblivious spectacle
of the world to our feet
like we were gods.
We don’t speak
of the waiting tests, the potential
for his blood to strangle him
from the inside someday soon.
I am not hungry
but swallow it all, unwilling
to waste a scrap. The sun cuts us
into soft ribbons, scattered
by the never-ceasing door.

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