i was about to write an ode
to a sandwich
and then i thought
tomatoes and lettuce don't really
represent
my feelings on life and love and the universe
very well.
so i ate my sandwich, and thought long and hard
about e. e. cummings
and his modernly punctuated
poems
about every poet that ever breathed before me.
and i thought ...damn.
what else is left for me to do
but trudge through the snow
wearing
someone
else's
boots?