amber alert.

Why a damned open sandwich?
They’re so awkward.
They make you feel inadequate.
Totally inadequate.
What the hell was I thinking?
Why did I even get it?
Okay—it looked appealing.
Appetising, even.
I should’ve known better, though.
This damned open sandwich.
Lifting it to my mouth,
halfway through, I realised that
the sandwich was
on a mission
to completely humiliate me.
To destroy me.
Its coming in contact with my lips
was a slap in the face. A punch.
I almost blacked out.
A fundamental error of judgement.
But indeed, I was craving it—and badly.
And now, I am with my tongue
unnaturally extended to bring, at least,
a morsel of the sandwich into my mouth
without upsetting the freakishly
subtle balance of slices of ham, radish,
halves of cherry tomato, bits of cheese
and sad, tiny leaves of green salad.
I am clearly in the process of
setting myself up for
complete and utter failure.
For it is a fact that in the next
millisecond most of the toppings
will come unattached,
will tumble down and soil
my freshly pressed silk shirt and
—most probably—
a juicy tomato
will make it all the way
to my fine linen slacks
and will leave an indelible mark.
Frankly, what the hell?
An open sandwich?