GRATITUDE SANDWICH

For the grill lines on the country bread 
that calms me.

For the buzz and hum that plays 
behind the background music 
in the sandwich shop.

For the patron who tilts her head while talking 
on her iPhone,

and the one who hides inside her kinky red hair,

and the one with the thick mascara,

and the one who empties his pockets on the table 
like confessions.

For the romesco, the red onion, and the aged chedder 
that mix with the blackened flank steak in my mouth.

For the bustle beyond the windows, the glint

of the buses, the buckles, and the wheelchair wheels.

For the gestures, the smiles, the eyebrows, the bangs 
and the cleavage, the big white teeth inside.

The salad made of corn, garlic, spinach-pesto 
puree and pepper dangling from my fork.

For the algorithm of the empty tables and chairs.

For the crumpled cellophane on a plate 
filled with crumbs.

For the leather and polyester, the cotton and silk

worn by so many different bodies and nationalities.

The polka dots and paisleys, the swirls and florals,

the blacks and greens.

For the shadows of the gulls 
on the building across the street.

For the salt on the tongue from the chips 

and the texture of the white paper napkin

that brushes across my fingertips like Braille.

For the nod from the man who sits next to me
wearing headphones and typing into his computer.

For the large red apostrophe 
on the server's work-shirt.

For the coffee yet to come. 
The bitter and the sweet.

For this last bite. The crust.
This moment and nothing more.