The art of relishing a tuna sandwich

Beside a bottle of pellucid water,

sits a lunch box, red in color.

A bunch of supple fingers stop tapping the keyboard
when the clock face announces lunch.
They drop inside a black Fendi and ramble listlessly
for a while. Dexterously, they rescue a limp sanitizer,
eventually.

Some of them hold the base and the rest,
smother the lid. With a palpable force,
the red lunch box pops open;
presenting a tuna sandwich
adequately wrapped.

The lissome fingers bend at the knuckles
and take a plunge in the red lunch box.
Deftly, they fish out the tuna sandwich
still wrapped, adequately.

They fondle it amorously and let its softness sink in.

The thumb and the index finger exfoliate
the plastic wrap carefully, while the others
wait impatiently at the base of the sandwich
to get the job done.

Finally,
the lips part.