glossy thighs tight in slick black pants and a bow tie;
that’s farfalle salad for you thoroughbreds or marsala or say, hey, Boss,
I’ve changed and am the morning staff, greeter of the sun
and rat and a bit of spendy waste on the prep last night.
Lass, take this rag and get on it; I’ll have no stable people;
people, I am the rod and I choose closers, folding in on bones
in the manner of; say a horse’s planed face. The nose;
I gamble on; white seared and bloody rare, the manager I now am.
Or guys, the whip, let’s eat before the guests arrive, let’s
instruct ourselves in the whites of their eggs and the skittish eyes
of a runner. Forget the tip jar, in good grace; grease yourself
for greater; I must waste me on a thin and stinging self; and you?
A flank with a race.aaaaaaaNo, Boss.aaaaaaaA what who can wait.
