Jelly Sandwich

There’s too many meals on our plate.
I feel guilty not wanting more.
The world is a near facsimile
Of my Italian grandmother.
“Manja, Manja!”
And I am just too obliging.
That’s why I cherish jelly sandwich,
Bent sideways by the weight of my plum.
Compact. Economic. Heavy on the jelly.
I’ve eaten at Sardi’s, mind you,
I’ve had lobster in Boston and hot dogs on Broadway,
But nothing wins out in sheer assurance
Than the noble and humble,
The steady and sweet,
Deceptively filling,
Gobbled by children,
Disdained by adults,
Vaunted, mysterious
Conflagration of fruit, nut, and bread.


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