He was a graveyard shift Deli employee Who constructed hero Sandwiches
For other workers Up too early Or awake too late. He made BLTs
For night watchmen And ham & cheddar For the nurses On their midnight
Lunch breaks. One night, near Dawn, he made A triple-decker sub
For a female cop Who wanted extra Onions. “Don’t screw Around,” the cop said.
“Extra means extra. Give me shallots And scallions, too. Not just regular onions.”
A gathering of crows Is called a murder. A group of eagles Is called a convocation.
Look! There’s a shrewdness Of apes! So what do you call The enormous stack of shallots And scallions amassed
On a cutting board? It’s a Sob of Onions! His eyes profusely watered As he sliced
And chopped All those onions. Their fierce fumes Permeated
The deli. There was no way The cop should Have been able
To tolerate such An overwhelming Sandwich, But she finished it
In 10 minutes, Gave him the thumbs-up, And said it was the best Sandwich
That she’d ever eaten. Then she winked at him And became A nightly customer.
Funny how, Thirty-two years later, He still remembers her. She must at least seventy
By now. He called her The Onion Cop Whenever he talked About her
With his fellow Sandwich makers. They teased him About being in love
With her. He laughed And denied it. But he wanted to tell them That his affection
For the Onion Cop Was more important Than romantic. He wanted to say
The Onion Cop gave Meaning to his job. If he was to be Making sandwiches
At three in the morning Then let him make A specific sandwich For a specific
Person. Let the sandwiches Comfort a stranger. Let them be armor When everything else is
Dangerous. These days, He only makes midnight Sandwiches at home With ingredients from
His well-stocked pantry And refrigerator While his wife And children sleep
Upstairs. Maybe, one night, He’ll make a sandwich With too many onions. Maybe he’ll whisper
A declaration of affection For the Onion Cop. Maybe he’ll wonder If the cop was in love with him
Or the sandwiches. He was a young man Made older By poverty
And desperation. He was prone, Then and now, To surges
Of fantasy And materialism. He once wrecked His car
Because he was distracted By daydreams Of winning the lottery. He was sometimes crushed
By rage. He was a service Worker who, in the presence Of any attention, Became an actor. But, hey,
Maybe he’s always been An actor. After all, Every fast food restaurant Is a stage
And every worker is an extra Playing the role of Extra And doing it all For minimum wage.
The Best Sandwich Maker in Seattle