The British sandwich industry is big business. It was reported last week that we spend a staggering pounds 3bn a year on them
Sandwich City

For a legal secretary

In a sunny London square

A symphony in lettuce

and ricotta

The splintered light of lime trees

Dash auburn in her hair

Which winter months

Had rendered terracotta

As a barrister from Brighton

On a lunch break from a case

Regards her from a seat

beside a tree

And entertains a fancy

More tender than obscene

While finishing his double BLT

All across the strumming city

The office kids break out

The jokers and the brokers

and the stallions

The Bridgets and the fidgets

And the blue-chip femme fatales

Who crowd the Pret-a-Mangers

and Italians

For their tuna salad mayos

Their crab sticks and their ham

On granary, on white

or pumpernickel

Go heavy on the gherkins

But easy on the cheese

And hold the Thousand Island

and the pickle

As the pigeons mug the pavements

For crumbs of crab and Quorn

And clog the streets and squares

in dense committee

With tikka, thai, tandoori and more exotic tones

The sandwich trade comes dancing

to The City