Ode to a Marriott Turkey Club

Your surly fingers try to hide

the obvious joy you feel at handling latex gloves.

Taking two glorious pieces of white bread,

White as the Queen’s tablecloth

Factory, bulk-made light bread, you trudge to the toaster.

But I know better – I can sense your anticipation.

And then – oh blessed lady – the mayonnaise

The tart but sweet condiment spread thinly on the toast,

Your knife a brush on a canvas of yeasted perfection.

Oh, do not curl your lip, Heavenly creature, as you handle

the turkey, the tomato, the lettuce! You cannot maintain

Ennui when handling bits of culinary paradise.

You lay each with the precision of minimum wage calculations

The expertise of time tables

And the secret love of a chef working the late shift.

What sound could I hope to make to impress upon your glowering eye, your pursed lips, your indifferent hands,

The towering testament to sandwich in my hands,

The climactic crunch of a 10pm late flight appetite appeasement!

Words shame the first bite.

The masterful combination of flavor and texture –

The sweet turkey, the salt of the bacon,

The fresh burst of tomato, the smooth lettuce,

A symphony for the taste buds, gastronomic bliss.

Oh, sweet Muse of the Marriott cafe,

You could never achieve anything less than perfection.

And my tip shall reflect my rapture.

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