I do not want to live like a salami sandwich.
It's not the mustard I mind
but the bread.
I am not meat.
The rye seeds get stuck in my throat.
The dough sucks up my phlegm.
And the cucumber's freshness
makes me miss that summer in Switzerland
when we climbed the Matterhorn
with our picnic basket
and I looked at your lederhosen
crawling up your fresh cheek.
Rio:
A Journal of the Arts