the bad shared sandwich

Our sandwich was soggy, the soapy white
bread loafing down to the dough under
grainy tomato, flattened on synthetic cheese,
rubberduck yellow, exuding a sweat,
to stick the shreds of desperate, droopy
lettuce in their place, sandwiched in
an evil gloss and brine of margarine,
and mayonnaise, in glops, squashed in.

This salad sandwich, four dollars forty,
bought at the kiosk, across from the gallery.

In the cool skirts of a Moreton Bay figtree
we sprawled and we talked of what art
we had seen. We shared the bad sandwich
with sweet weak tea. You were never my type,
but I revelled in talking to you.
I love to talk to you.
Your wry frustrations touch me.

You grew a wet moustache, which you wiped off,
with a white cloth. I probed the roof
of my mouth, with a thickened, coated tongue.

Buttery pools of sunlight poured
through the sieve of leaves above.
Faraway traffic thrashed and surged, like surf.

We shared a bad sandwich, we did not mention it.
Everything tastes better, out of doors.