poetry, the kitchen

Chef came up to the line,
looked at me and asked.
“you ready, Lobo,
you’re not gonna fail me,
are you?”
“No, Chef.”

I pulled out my little maraca,
Rev. Larry gave me years back
to use to call forth the Kitchen Gods;
and danced on the line
back and forth,
shaking it.
singing a prayer in Ianish.
An’ I was off.
Chef started calling in the tickets.

Songs played in my head
and I danced all night.
spinning and turning.
and putting the the plates out,
wave after wave
until we all started asking.
“Is the last ticket in?”

“Time to pack up, clean up, and leave.”
Chef replied.

I cleaned my knives, spoons, and spatula,
put ’em in my knife roll,
and rolled it like a cigarette;
then I went to Chef,
before I headed to the bar down the street
to meet with the rest of the crew.

“Well chef, I did the dance,
walked the walk,
blessed the line.
we came through great.”
He smiled.
“You forgot to bless Pastry”

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