My friend Ally sent me this photo and said: "This was just lying there in the kitchen in my office. A single slice of untoasted bread in a sandwich bag. There's something really sad about it, I think.... It needs you to write a poem about it."
So here is the sonnet to commemorate the sad piece of bread that never made it into a sandwich:
You put me in a plastic sandwich bag,
But I am just one simple slice of bread.
I hear them now, they all begin to nag,
These questions that run nonstop through my head.
Without the Mayo and without the meat
Is this small sandwich bag truly my place?
And do I even look that good to eat?
Say, would I qualify as open-face?
If only you could see me as I was
In waving fields of endless golden wheat,
You never would have left me here because
You'd think of me as something warm and sweet
I am untoasted and unwanted now.
I stop to think about the recent past.
I damn the wretched rake and curse the plough
That erewhile led me to this plastic cast
My questions leave one answer in their stead:
The fillings make the sandwich, not the bread!
Remember that, kids! It's all about your insides. If you are looking for closure, I have no good news - the bad of bread was no where to be seen when Ally returned. I hope it knows there is a poem written in its honor.