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.
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