FS
Frank Schmidt
Jun 22, 2025
A++++ Beneath the glow of neon humming low,
A glass-walled stage begins its rhythmic show.
The scent of toasted yeast and vinegar brine
Invites the hungry to the assembly line.
A silver bin for every crisp desire,
From pickled heat to sweetness caught in fire.
"Which bread?" the artist asks with practiced grace,
As sourdough or herbs fill up the space.
The blade descends, a hinge of golden crust,
To hold the weight of hunger and of trust.
Then layers rise: the ham, the steak, the cold,
In portions measured, stories yet untold.
The garden follows—shredded, green, and bright,
With peppers ringing circles in the light.
The olives scatter, dark and salty gems,
Beside the onions' sharp and purple stems.
A heavy hand of spinach piles on high,
While cucumbers reflect the fluorescent sky.
Then comes the drift of sauces, thick and bold,
The honey mustard’s glint of liquid gold,
The creamy ranch, the chipotle’s smoky swirl,
As flavor patterns start to loop and curl.
A shake of pepper and a pinch of salt,
Bring every wandering craving to a halt.
Into the heat the open cavern slides,
Where cheese meets flame and savory fat resides.
The edges crisp, the center turns to melt,
The finest warmth the paper wrapper’s felt.
Then folded shut, a heavy, fragrant prize,
Securely tucked away from curious eyes.
A cookie follows—macadamia, soft—
As plastic cups are lifted high aloft.
The crinkle of the bag, the final seal,
Completes the ritual of the subway meal.
No matter where the city streets may wind,
That yellow sign is what the weary find.