ham on rye

i dream of
a fat ham
sandwich,
pink and sliced
an inch thick
on rye bread
with the smooth
yellow smile
of mustard.
i dream of milk.
cold and white
in a clear cylinder
of glass,
of a long
green pickle,
like a wand of
seeds and juice,
set beside it.
i see you too,
wanting a bite.
wanting more than
your share,
opening your wide
grin, your
teeth closing
down. wanting more
than half of my
ham on rye, but
fortunately,
by law, in
the state of
virginia, it's
all i have to
give you.