the sandwich maker

you forget to ask
for cheese
on your sandwich
but the woman
behind the counter
has already
wrapped it up
in stiff white paper,
tagged it with
a piece of tape
and scribbled onto
the side, black forest
ham, no cheese.
excuse me
you say, but could
you put a slice
or two of provlone
on there for me,
sorry. her face gets
red, and her blue
eyes glaze over.
you see her red hands
gripping a knife, then
in one quick motion she
picks up your sandwich
and throws it against
the back wall
where it breaks up
like a flowering
fireworks display,
scattering lettuce
and onions,
peppers and tomatoes
into the air,
then she turns back
to you and says evenly
with the voice of a woman
who needs a drink
and a cigarette badly,
provolone, are you sure?