Clean
       

There was an octopus in the fish
tank nicknamed Vishnu. There were managers
like lifeguards in their lifeguard chairs watching over
busboys in their busboy wilderness.
There were shadows of customers still
sticking to tables that had
to be unstuck with lemon juice. When a customer
dropped her lobster, time seizured so
I turned to my daydream where
the restaurant wasn't
a superfund site. There was a simple code: you could ignore
the schedule & not punch out for breaks
& take two hour breaks & steal beer from the coolers
& get stoned on the dock

                                            AS LONG AS YOU COVERED
FOR EACH OTHER AND KEPT THE DINING ROOM UNDER
CONTROL.

                                        & when a busboy was cleaning a table
his hands should resemble a hummingbird's
wings. & when the condiments were being organized
a skilled busboy should spin the ketchup & shakers
like pistols before holstering them in the tray. Only then in the customer's
mind would a table really be clean.

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Copyright © 2011 Matthew Guenette All rights reserved
from American Busboy
The University of Arkansas Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission