STEPS

There is a half-eaten sandwich

lying on the steps

in the rain

collecting moisture

absorbing the elements

as it loses all semblance

of its former identity

as a nutritious meal.

How did it get half-eaten?

Was it bad?

Did it spoil?

Will it be a better rotting

mold-cake than it was a ham on rye?

Who will judge me if I taste it?

What is its history?

The mystery of this sandwich

perplexes me.

The sandwich rests on my steps

taunting me

torturing me.

One of us

has got to go.