Work

(A love poem to my favorite job of all time– Andolini's)

[I worked at Ando's 1998-1999 in Charleston SC.]

…And yes, I am being serious. In my own twisted way, after this piece was published I learned that in fact, it actually is a love poem honoring one of my most fulfilling jobs ever!

WORK -LB (Feb 2019)

And then tie your apron and then smile at Mrs. Rosetti— she owns the butcher shop and writes your check and then make sure your station is fully stocked, fully clean, fully ready for your shift, and then clock in and then clock in— you don’t clock in before your apron is on, before your apron is tied, before smiling at Mrs. Rosetti, before making certain that your station is stocked— no you don’t do that and then wipe down the butcher boards then the mirrors then the table tops, chairs, floors and then check with Carl to make certain he is all set cause if Carl is not all set and then Carl tells Mrs. Rosetti he is not all set then— and then you will be out of a job and then after Carl is all set re-wipe the butcher boards cause we are only paying you minimum wage and you know what that means and then you don’t ask for a raise, you don’t ask if you can go home early, you don’t ask if you can stay late, if you can take a long lunch, if you can stop and say hi to your friends and then you leave with your friends like the last boy we hired and then we get a post card from California and then the last boy we hired visits us and tells us how everything is wonderful in California, that minimum wage is higher in California, and then you leave to go to California and then you leave Mrs. Rosetti crying in the cannolis and then you don’t laugh at my alliteration because you are only a minimum wage worker— not a part-owner like me, like Carl, like anyone who matters, and then you— are you listening to me or are you— and then you pay attention because this is your training and we don’t pay you for your training— the last boy didn’t get paid for his training and not even Carl got paid for his training so you certainly will not get paid unless you pass your training and then you will clock in because we are only paying you minimum wage and we know you know what that means and then you will wipe the boards and then you will smile at sweet Marie Rosetti because she is the owner and she built this place before you were in diapers and we only pay minimum wage and you will wash the dishes, wash the sinks, wash the stools, wash the floors, mirrors, pots, pans, ladles, because we are only paying you minimum wage and we can replace you in a moment’s notice if you don’t—and then you will not ask for a raise, you will not ask to go on vacation, not ask to buy new furniture for your sorry mother— the minimum wagers always have sorry mothers and then you will think that somehow you are different and then we will tell you that you are not even if you do a good job which is doubtful because minimum wage workers usually do bad jobs and then you will clock in— and then you will clock in— and then you will work.

Back from PHiSH, D&C, & SCI. (July 2019)

Okay, so I wrote this BEFORE the summer even began,

But most of y’all wouldn’t know that anyways,

AND, as it turned out this Summer-Predictions Poem was/is quite accurate…

SUMMER PREDICTIONS –LB 5.17.19

Driving up the Rockies,

Over The Great Divide

Down the Mississipp

through the cornfield...

congested through ways of the.

North east

past and through the drive-in,

drive-thru

Lobster Mc archways,

glazing through dunking rings of dough

crab Merry gaps,

Monumental squares,

Casino roundabouts,

up n down sacred elevations of the

GPS

TA emblazoned Beacons fueling me, Steve, the randos accompanying us and our chariot.

MP3, USB, the F to the B,

the blue Birdie,

the gram to the me,

the W that's three,

and the cloudless/cloudy.

[That might be where it should end]

The cloudless/ Cloudy yellow line,

dashing up,

And through,

In and over

states and codes and counties. Amphitheaters of similar dimensions

with similar sounds

and similar sights, in stealth,

directing my actions.

Parking grills,

pendant thrills,

Icy Gatorade chills,

Obsessive less likely nills.

A buildup of boric cured by a white pill the night's still made for me.

To be me.

[Another potential end]

Them days - ughhhhhh.

Sheetz strewn,

Car loaded

Onwards to the next show

go go slow,

go. Go, enjoy the journey but make the

scene by 3--

Set up, make money, get that ticket.

the day-- so gradually becomes night.

Add, the night's [still] made for me?

The congested smooky boozy money

packed line.

The Hourglass moment.

Squeeze, tug, push.

No cadence, no rhyme, reason, rhythm,

Buck waters

Asshole cops or Boulder cops-- best in

the nation.

Security guards; MGM or MGM

The latter? Michael in a wheelchair,

The former? The CSI kickers.

The lights change

And them four--

And we all--

And "another reason to play Kick the Can."