[author’s note: read this poem aloud for full effect]

I was slammed as soon as I walked through the door
in the weeds, so deep in the weeds
that I couldn’t tell the dandelions
from the nasturtiums from heads of romaine
I was on the line before I knew it
on the line, way down the line
later I’d learn, later I’d have to learn,
the knife skills that come from
just cutting and cutting and cutting
over and over and over again
preparing my mise en place
learn my place, find my brigade, but
for now — I was on the line
cooking on the fly with shouts
from the pass, feeling the heat of the
salamander and the spits of oil that just made
my whites smell like pandoras box
each time I had to bark back a consequence
replating this and wiping that
did you hear, answer me, you heard
“Go to Your Room”
was like I had just 86’ed ice cream for a year
For a year? A year? Seriously?
it felt like a lifetime — seriously, all day,
tear down the line and burn the ice
because tomorrow would be a new push of
prepping and prepping and prepping and prepping
then they’d come — they always come —
chits and chits a rail running long with chits
fearing what’s on deck but an eight top
hold this, extra that, on the side, cremate —
oh my god it’s just whining and dining and the whining —
just make it hot, hotter damn it, make it suicide,
make it — make it so it bleeds and
oh, and then … now then stretch the sauce
because someone, some one cover changed his mind
or that precious precious who wants to refire
then stiffs me for the hockey puck
No! I don’t like it.
some days watching hearing the eating
makes me want to dine and dash
and then other days, it’s like a 16 hour rush,
old school punk fills the air and food flies,
and we crush it, we crush crush crush it
and we are a rhythm running on the juice
we forget to eat and don’t feel the hunger inside
till the house empties and bartender pours
an (oh such a cold sweaty) glass of gold
and the sweat cools to butter and onions on my skin
and I know I did good — real good —
damn I was slammed, slammed real good,
at the back of the house but
I can hang on that line, baby I can hang,
I killed it tonight, yes, tonight,
and that 8 year old foodie to be
he ate it up, wolfed his dinner and asked for more
and, damn it, he said thank you — Thank you — yes!
before putting his arms around my neck
You’re the best cooker in the world —
and I know, in this moment, now,
I can do this,
tonight.

∞

Submitted as part of “National/Global Poetry Writing Month” (#NaPoWriMo #GloPoWriMo).
Today’s prompt:  Today, I’d like to challenge you to think about the argot of a particular job or profession, and see how you can incorporate it into a metaphor that governs or drives your poem.

30 Poems in 30 Days

All text and photography © Dale Schierbeck