Four Sandwiches

—Washington, D.C.

JC was called the Rack

at the work farm,

aluminum milk pails

dangling from his hands.

Once a sudden fist

crushed the cartilage of nose

across his face,

but JC only grinned,

and the man with the fist

stumbled away.

JC sings his work farm songs on the street,

swaying with black overcoat and guitar,

cigarettes cheaper than food.

But today he promises

four sandwiches, two for each of us.

The landlady, a Rumanian widow,

has nailed a death mask

over JC’s bed,

sleeping plaster face

of a drowned girl

peaceful in the dark.

As the girl contemplates water

and pigeons batter the window,

JC spreads the last deviled ham

on two slices of bread,

presses them together,

then slowly tears four pieces.

“Here,” he almost sings,

“four sandwiches.”

Source: Imagine the Angels of Bread (W. W. Norton and Company, Inc., 1996)