Copyright 2005 R.D. Ellison

ONE INSIDER’S ACCOUNT

Surreptitious-Suspicious

There’s no good paid work,

But there’s banquet prep

And burnt fingertips.

All-eyed newlin’s just lick

‘Em, type-dab crums, and quick

Their dulled stomachs flame to

Sour-rich pickle ins,

And steak-broth from the stew,

And round sauce-bones growin’

The tiniest, tenderest meat

(Lor’! How rich people eat!)

Shame-temptin’ are spoons of

Gravy with beef-bit centers,

Stylish scarlet ladies of

Strawberry cheesecake-squares,

Salt-cubes – seeds little and

Many to a mouthful

And sent-back cold, dead hills

For stuff that on tongue lands

With sizzle that freezes.

And this ladle-stealth’s done

‘Mid the hollerin’s and hum

And hustle-bossgirl, who is

Plain-faced and mare-eyed,

And ‘tends eyelessness

At blatant sip-swifts.