Ode To a White Anchovy Sandwich

For the Marinated White Anchovy Sandwich from ‘Wichcraft, Bryant Park Tent, Fashion Week

O sandwich, no one cares for you here.
The briny flesh of silver-backed fish,
The gentle goodness of a soft-cooked egg,
The bracing zing of a salsa verde crushed
Against a minor thicket of frisée:
All these are lost
On a Blackberrying crowd
That won’t drink the free energy drinks
Because they’re caloric.

The strictures of fashion dictate
That your deliciousness shall have no power
Over a group who
If they had to choose between you and a size two
Would always choose the latter, not the fatter.

I am your only admirer.
I know, because I asked. Was there anyone else
Who ordered this sandwich today, or even
All week? No, said the counter lady, hands in pockets.
You’re the only one.