I wrote this poem over the summer while working in the staff kitchen as a dishwasher at Camp Pigott Boy Scout Camp, in Monroe.

Racks on my mind.
Racks in a stack
Racks in the back
Racks on a rack
Racks on a rack in the stack in the back.

I put my head to the grind.
But what will they say
If I am buried in the ground
With racks on my mind?

They've got grease and grime
And grit and gum
Fork and spoon to the side
And dishes two by two.

I dream of bacon and eggs
And ham and cheese
tacos and tater tots
burgers and fries
And Oatmeal

And the mess you leave behind.

I am the master of the pit.
I will clean your dishes
But not the stains of your soul.

Fucking dishes.
Fucking people.

Fuck dishes.

Fuck people.