The wizened mystic in his shadowed laboratory
Experiments, combines the refuse bodies of plants and animals
Already departed from life.
For hours days years on end
He prays to alchemical daemons
To grant him knowledge
To enlighten him
To illuminate the path by which He
And he alone might create life.
A sudden inspiration:
The golden yolk of a hen’s egg
One hundred olives squeezed to release their oil
Flakes of salt collected from an evaporating pool
On a seaside rock
And other mysterious powders from a worm-eaten chest in his possession
He stirs and chants
Until at last they combine.
Was this the elixir of life
To give breath to his homunculus?
No, it was mayonnaise.
He’d made a sandwich,
And sandwiches don’t have eyes,
So they can’t see the north star.
Is it the bread? The cheese?
What makes us weak in the knees
When we take the first bite of a sandwich?
Meatballs, lamb, egg salad, portobello
So different yet equally tasty to swallow
When we take the first bite of a sandwich.
The stacking is key; it’s the process, the layers!
I could eat each ingredient separately- who cares!
They’re fine, but the construction endears it to our hearts
Because, my friend, a Sandwich is more than the sum of its parts.