take what's left of me
with a firm hand, just the way it's meant to be
and steer me there, to that place we stumbled upon
when the air was so cold our breath nearly froze
almost as solid as me
your eyes had a fire distant behind the(more) everyday
and without knowing how, i stoked it
and oh how it grew, flames where ice lived forever
till they turned into sweltering summer sweat
thermal energy kicking into overdrive
boiling over steamy thick jungle pavement
mingling with magic carpet rides and porch swings
deep among the pine trees, covered and cradled,
lingering aftershocks ripple
we are sustainably sated with these stolen pockets,
enough to last through the drudgery,
when this is all there is to pull us through,
and most importantly,
So. My daily worklife: washing floors, dishes, bathrooms. s
So visitors have an illusion no one else shits or pisses, messily, or squeezes their whiteheads onto a public mirror or hawks phlegm into the sink to remain in a brown-limned blot when I try half-assedly to rinse it away. (more)
Of course, I don't bother to actually wash. I just spritz Windex around and count on that ammoniac odour to assure you in the way less fragrant elbow grease cannot.
The best part of my mind is on stories, on words, but of course this tendency is only appreciated in menial labourers AFTER they make it; certainly not during their captivity of service.
In the kitchen we're listening to either East Indian fusion or Top 40 skin-crawl rock (it depends what headchef is working) while the meat&potatoes-reeking steam makes my white smock stick to me.
I arrange plates-cups-cutlery into orderly stacks. My bare hands have longsince got used to hot dirty water and stainless steel so sweltering it feels creamy. I'm not reluctant to use my fingernails to scrape off any bits of grub the Hobart doesn't rinse away.
I'm the person who emerges from the back when you spill your $8 drink all over the floor, even though I hate to emerge from the private, sweating backroom where we've been comfortably drinking offbrand vodka since 4 o'clock. I have perfected the 'You're not REALLY an asshole' smile, wetmop dripping as you scoot out of the way; I'm grinning so happily maybe you assume (esp. if you have a kitchen past yourself) I've been "doing lines."And come 10pm I count the minutes until 11, because that's when I am me again, that's when I can write again though of course I only keep drinking, or rage in my silences. Another day.(less)