Slow Burn: A Poetry Collection

Two Week Notice

Who's at the door today?

Residents?

Managers?

Assistants?

Waitstaff?

Who cares, the door always opens.

They all mock me for things my

hands don't remember;

and punish me for the crime

of former admiration.

Who cares, the show must go on.

My former training scoffs

at the modern teachings of it.

Trivial things like

"Would you like any fruit?"

and

"May I take your order."

are suddenly hard.

Meeting their eyes, with shaking hands

I scribble their desires on overpriced,

outdated paper and prepare to be wrong

about everything.

Things like heated water,

flushed faces and some unknown

third factors, haunt me long after

the sink has been cleaned, and

the ovens are cooled.

My manager is not mine and

she doesn't care about my burns

or the cuts on my fingers

or the taste of salt on my tongue

or my bruised ego

or shaking hands.

All I know about her is

that she drives a Honda.

Fucking Hondas.

But again, we circle the same issue

of being out of place

and that I've forgotten

how much I used to love it here.