Layers.

The bread, honey roasted sweet
Golden brown, lined, like a Brazilian tan.
A carve of tomato,
Like a seesaw wedge,
Goes to and fro,
Like a tennis match.

The cucumber crunch,
Like ice to a parched throat.
A smidgeon of sauce
Jalapeños, exotic,
Like the sound it makes in your mouth.
An orgasmic blur of spice and salt.

A slathering of mayonnaise
A sliver of olive
A slice of roast chicken,
Lush and tender.
A cut of meat,
Medium rare.

This ménage de trios
of multigrain, meat and me
Ah, these layers three.
One’s mine, another’s yours.
The third one’s the one the world can’t see.