like that afternoon
at the ski slopes
in that crowded cafeteria
wet mittens and discarded toboggans everywhere
sore legs
and the burn of cold air in my lungs

hot ham and cheese
on a buttered bun
wrapped in tin foil
fuel for the next ride up the gondola
and my fourteenth fall
on my butt in the snow  

on that mountain
somewhere in Indiana
covered white
by man-made machines
to look like Sweden
or the Alps or some other place for skiing

that probably wouldn’t serve
hot ham and cheese
or  put up with some beginner
at something new for a change
enjoying every minute
every memory in this sandwich.