The Dunes - From Robo-Eyes

     The only backstory I can think up for this one involves WALL-E and a couple of Lagunitas tall cans. I also don't think I had a TV at the time, so there's that. I hope you like it in its convenient picture form, too. Thanks again for reading, and have a good day.

Kitchen Artistry and Majesty

     As the final piece of poetry in my series on work, I chose to channel the rarest feeling of them all. One that comes in waves. One that keeps people going. One that, hopefully, never goes away when it does show up.

     Satisfaction. 

     Love what you do, and you'll never work a day in your life, right?

     While that's the most ideal situation, obviously, but its still work, right? Its not always 100% sunshine and rainbows, but rather like overcoming a series of challenges. And at the end of it all, you can sit back and be proud of what you accomplished. 

     That is true satisfaction in my mind. 

     I chose to present it from the point of view of an aspiring cook/chef, and hope that I present the job as well as I can. I harked back to my very first job, which was slaving away in the kitchen of Round Table Pizza. The summers were unbelievable hot, our dinner rushes were relentless, but I'll be damned if it wasn't a ritualistic bonding experience getting through all of it. I think back to it often and, even though I was probably irritating to work with, I was always fine with getting through the slog. 

     Thanks again for reading, and I hope you like it. 

The Kitchen Artist

Dinner time at last.

I wander in the front,

Weaving through packed tables,

Heading towards the chaos.

The doors swing inwards,

Assailing my senses.

Despite the assault,

I am home immediately.

Boiling fryers scream,

Nestled in the corner.

Their crispy promises

Make my mouth water.

The angry man in white,

Rambling about his griddle,

Turns towards me, locking eyes,

And gives me a mission.

Red, marbled slabs slide to me.

My knives and I get to work,

Cracking bone, slicing gristle

They gleam with crimson fury.

Onto the griddle they go,

And the searing begins.

Sliding across greasy steel,

A juicy dream emerges, at last.

Onto a plate, I send it

Riding its ceramic jet.

Accompanied with vegetation,

It's destined for an eager pallet.

Each slip of paper

Is a new blank canvas.

My marble is grass-fed,

Time to construct David.

The man in white takes a break,

And I eagerly join him.

We adjourn out back,

And compare notes.

We are artists unto each other,

Each at different phases,

Painting with different brushes,

Yet sampling from the same pallet.

We burn one to the filter,

Then right back to the maelstrom.

Onto the next masterpiece,

Until the final bell sounds.

We amble over to the bar,

All equaled through our toil.

We close that down, too,

And emerge out into the ether.

My knives are my tools,

Extensions of my essence.

I am eager to paint my next masterpiece,

As I dream of my realm of insanity.

Stefan Adcock 2019