Subway™

Subway in Long Acre,
your identikit loaves and soda,
your sad Polish waitress
with gloved plastic hands
smeared in chili and mayo,
your watermarks of New York
like blueprints on the wall,
your catfood olives and cheese
in perfect plastic triangles,
your fathom-long sandwiches
stretching back into dark oven
oatsmelling and divine,
salami and burnished ham
in mighty Parthenon columns,
your Dominican in the back
with centenial mustaches
shouting something about salt,
your invincible refills
from the sugar and ice machine,
your unknown herbs out of
the gardens of antiquity,
your apocalypse-proof salads,
face filling, stomach fucking
glory of American invention,

this amber evening is like looking
through sunglasses of Coca-Cola,
and I love you.