Ode to an Italian Sandwich

(This humble poem is dedicated to Sister S. with love.)

Ode to an Italian Sandwich

There it is! Here, I embrace

Italian sandwiches to stuff my face.

If you are not New England born,

You may look down your nose in scorn;

But if you want what’s good to taste,

To the Northeast you must make haste.

We have a secret:  Italians fall

Not in Italian food at all.

They rest on long white rolls instead,

The Italian Sandwich

So soft, so fresh, like Wonder Bread,

As from your childhood memories

Of white bread, with American cheese.

Ham, baloney, salami and more

Selections you make, in the store.

And these aren’t made in restaurants

But at corner stores. And you may want

Tomatoes, olives, pickles dill;

Green peppers, (if you have the will

To eat that belladonna kin.

That kind of strength, I’ve not within.)

Then, olive oil is poured on top,

With salt and pepper to make it pop.

Italian sandwich bites begin

To make the oil run down your chin

Onto your hands, your face, your clothes,

And even up around your nose.

Though other states may loud complain,

The best Italians come from Maine,

And Subway cannot e’er remake

Italians. And for goodness’sake

Don’t call them Grinders, Subs or such;

For Mainers, that may be too much.

But come now eastward.  You will find

Italians, best for humankind.

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