Two slices of the softest, plain white bread.

No fancy roll, no flour-dusted muffin

Spread thick with butter, a layer to embed

The heat keeps the contents safe from harm.

Then comes the torrent from the chip-shop paper,

a greasy, glorious, salt-flecked avalanche.

Piled on one slice, a teetering skyscraper

of potato, breaking every branch

Of self-control.

The second slice laid on,

A gentle press with the flat of your hand.

The structure yields, the starchy heat has won,

The bread begins to soften and expand.

A line of butter melts and starts to seep.

The corners buckle, heavy with the load.

You cut it corner to corner, a fault line deep.

It is the simplest pleasure on the road,

The taste of pure, uncomplicated joy.

The perfect sandwich for a girl or boy.