Plongeur

These fingers have grasped ceramic and glass,

turning and scrubbing dishes and instruments

of consumption. These hands have been immersed

in hot and murky fetid water, working and toiling

until the night has worn down to the final minutes

when hours of work must be finished.

The grime and grease of more than thousands

of leftovers stained on dishes must be obliterated.

These callouses break and reform through bleach and detergent,

these fingers have grasped plates, bowls, glasses, mugs, pots, pans, and every kind of utensil

imagined, cast away food half eaten, not eaten, thrown away food dumped in plastic

bags mixed with poison, for those just one step below to dig through and savor.

These hands have contemplated searching for sustenance, and so the mind

wanders, spine slumped over, the dish washing machine compact and half-working.

These fingers have ended nights with desire for a cold clean glass,

while the hand rests upon a common grail and ponders whose hands it has passed

through and ponders more the covenant between each proletariat.

That each and every person mind their own, and drink and sometimes moan,

but never belabor too much the plight of pointless labor.

From Golden to Broken

The projects are there…

everything is drenched in poverty.

Lady in black,

how do I know you?

Unless I take another wrong turn,

I will never find you again.

I’m lost down the longer path.

My words will wither in your wrath…

unmarked vehicles tailing the human face-

in metal chalk outlines.

Keep up the pace,

or get left behind,

What I think about the most-

victims of landmines.

Hold me close to your unapologetic ghost.

The proverbial, lustrous cutlery

smacks me when I think or create.

Amber waves infected by chemical rain,

please deprive me of America.