12, May 1998 In the back of the place, in the bread room bits of dirt, dust, and bread crumbs flee from my broom Gangsta Rap blaring hard in my ears he turns it off when he enters so he can hear talking about some of the clique as he greases up the machine must be ages since I've talked to him, it seems he runs the slicer whilst I wipe off the shelves talking about what I've missed, all kinds of hell I find a wet rag from somewhere, I don't know and wipe off all the flour and dried up dough He paces around the room, gestering wildly but me quiet, doesn't dissappear in this room, so tiny The slicer is done, it's humming stopped. My broom is done, it's swishing stopped. I leave for the kitchen, I put the broom away where the bustle starts, the restaraunt opened for the day I want to go back inside, share a laugh, not sure what I saw But orders are up, lunch hour has started, and reality gives me a call.
Reason for writing:
I really hate my job.
but hey, makes for some good writing, no?
email me with feedback or check out my site :
http://www.geocities.com/Paris/Bistro/7037
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