The Mats

The mats are the last thing every night – four foot

by three foot, three quarters of an inch

thick, rubber -- row after row of rings

each with flimsy spines, for traction. The ones in my area –

the dish--zone – are easy. But the red ones

under the Souse Chef – Leonard -- are caked

with lard, chunks of fallen shrimp. I’m telling you the guy’s

a fucking disaster. He’s a crappy cook too, but

he kisses Judy’s ass. The waitresses kiss Leonard’s ass.

Leonard kisses Judy’s ass. She kisses the customers. Everybody

sucks up to Dr. Henry -- comes in every

Friday with a new anorexic bimbo. I saw him once. He

came to the kitchen entryway to compliment

the food. The way he looked at Judy, he took her

in the palm of his hand and stroked

her across the forehead like a gerbil. Man, she

would have taken him right there

on the mats. No one kisses my ass, you know. Some

of the waitresses are nice; they ask, “How’re you feeling? Did

you have a good Christmas?” It sucked. Thank you.

They think they’re good people, asking

about my day off. Why don’t you help me

clean these fucking mats? Let’s see you covered

with chicken chunks and eggplant marinated. Let's watch you

wrestle these mother--fuckers

over the goddamn fire escape. Fingers shriveled

in cold water as I squeeze the hose, I throw back my head

to the crisp March sky, and scream

“FUCK YOU!” at the stars. The universe

doesn’t even yawn, just

keeps rolling endlessly through itself.