A man's father nears death,
another man enters drunk again,
one is oversleeping, and one is working,
me, I fight to see the light,
but all I'm doing now is watching
the season's hangovers start too soon.
Recipes, news and the rolling business scene
where photos and shows clamber for attention,
crawl over walls, rise over smoke, over steel,
over steaming plates to the tables waiting,
and up the back stairway where the sun
comes in all shadowless and clear,
just perfect for the one shot that says who I am.
The colors of the plate that says come to me...
And then,
turn to statements of profit and loss
and see the signs of theft, of a reckless bar,
see the signs of progress, nonetheless...
Phone rings twenty times,
twenty times the calls for orders or reservations.
Nonstop. Go day go!
Nonetheless, the kitchen shines.
And when I taste the bright cilantro
and oak mushroom sauté,
when I feel the salty and sour
sink into my tongue,
I can say yeah, this is ok,
this is why I came to work today.
It's not the schedules, the personal,
the dollar signs or the attention,
it's for this taste of great food,
of flavors doing an epiphany thing
with me in the center of this dharma busting.
Food does that, it open doors and dark places,
mocks religion and the politic,
food is the one god we dare not offend.
a dollar goes nowhere
when there's really nothing left
for the money to do
