Kitchen Hand
The weekend shift would start at 10am,
the previous night’s mishaps bleeding
slowly from my pores, consuming
both my flesh and the zinc covered
counters that shone smuggly
amongst the unsharpened knives
and the heavy heated conjecture;
always the root of our day’s routine.
The dash of crushed, spilt
ingredients upon floor tiles,
the lights that reflected
from the flames that crossed my wrists,
the nerve endings now too severed to care.
the haze of fatigue across my eyes
like the clingfilm smothering these leftovers,
which we served up as the fruits of our toil.
A splash of blood diluted by dishwater
clashes like car oil in back street puddles.
Once again you await the orders,
seemingly superimposed onto
this chaos, your calm a reflective
flame that allowed me a glimpse
of respite, a measure of grace
that justified the salt stains and meat scraps
smothered across my payslip.
©2024 Jonathan Butcher All rights reserved.
Jonathan Butcher has had poems appear in various print and online publications including, The Morning Star, Mad Swirl, Drunk Monkeys, The Abyss, Cajun Mutt Press and others. His fourth chapbook, ‘Turpentine’ was published by Alien Buddha Press. He is also the editor of online poetry journal Fixator Press. He also has a poem in Night Owl Narrative No.1:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CQVN1WPW
