I guess this is flash fiction. It’s really just stream-of-consciousness prose, but that’s an awkward phrase. Whatever, it’s not poetry, but it has the earmarks of one of my poems. That is, it’s weird.

“I’ll have the hysterectomy sandwich, please,” Donald said and passed his gloves to the matronly woman to his left who was busily and nastily gnawing on an old chicken bone. Dog-like she was in her ways, but not dog-like enough to catch anyone’s attention for more than a second or two.

The deli manager, Mr. Loper, forced his way through the kitchen’s double doors and barked, “Sonny, we don’t serve hysterectomy sandwiches. This ain’t 1958!”

“I beg to differ,” Donald replied smoothly. “It may not be 1958, but your menu clearly states that you sell hysterectomy sandwiches, and your Facebook page proclaims it, as well. Therefore, you are—dare I say?—honor bound to accommodate my request.”

“Pea squash!” Mr. Loper shrieked at an incredibly high volume and intensity, enough to make the doggish woman howl in response and the other patrons (a salt shaker, two wizened biscuits, and a pony from Teddy Roosevelt’s time) shudder.

“You’re telling me you won’t make my hysterectomy sandwich?” demanded Donald. He was in quite a tizzy, red-faced and red-assed, ready to make war with Mr. Loper. He had brass knuckles. He could handle himself, by God.

“That’s what I’m telling you!” Mr. Loper answered and shot his fist into the sky. “Vive la difference!”

“I’ll never dine here again,” Donald said, kicking a chair out of his way as he strode toward the mammoth door.

“Hallelieghluuah,” said the Dog Lady. She never learned to spell the word, but it was close enough.