Cleaning Up at the Hamtramck Burger Chef
Poem by Don Winter
Nights at this place
boss lines spray bottles up
across the counter. He says the red’s
for shelves, the blue’s for toilets,
and the white’s only for stainless steel.
His eyebrows frown, but when
that bastard disappears into his office,
I spray what I want
onto what I want.
Some nights his wife lifts
her ass onto the counter. She points
out turnover skins I missed.
Looks like she’s been slept in
for years. Those nights I time
his trip to the bank so I can chase
her with the white bottle.
And I catch her and squeeze
the little Chef faces stitched
over her breasts.
But most nights the boss
looks right through me. His wife cleans
the salad bar, and yells
at the bits of mustard and dressing.
As if they were to blame
for all this. One night boss yelled,
What are you sittin’ around for?
Go home and get yourself
a piece of ass. I turned to him.
I am a piece of ass.
He laughed at that,
so I said it louder.
