Wednesday, 2 July 2014

my craft

I burn myself for a living.
Sometimes I burn the coffee too.
I apologise between twelve and seventeen times a day*


*Those numbers may stretch.

I thank people for their rudeness.
I laugh at all of the jokes.
I am most of the jokes.
Sometimes I taste blood and realise I’m chewing the inside of my cheek.

I smile for money.
I have four bosses – all of them very smart and very funny. 
I am not.

Strangers read my name off a badge,
Pinned down on an unironed shirt.
My colleagues address them as ‘sir’ but I don’t know how.
I think it comes down to motor skills,
My gag reflex blocks the sound and threatens substance,
Warm wet breakfast chunks that would rankle even more than ‘mate’.

Foot sore I blush,
Sweaty I smile,
Meek I list weak skinny, large skinny, large skinny, small skinny.
I am the funniest jokes. 

Bad breath slaps my face.
Bad breath.
Bad bad breath.
I          don't       breathe.
There is no tip jar.
There is no need, 
For love - it can only be for love.
I steam cheap milk and dispense change with nimble hands.

Burnt.

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