New draft (thank you Marti!)

Starting from Here, Where do We Move?

I am from cheeseburgers

and french fries, real

ice cream milkshakes, and

bleach rags, bleach rags, bleach rags.

By the back door, cooks crouch,

roll cigarettes, argue

about hip-hop and closing, stroke

each others egos.

I slide toward the dumpster while they

kick the edge of the greased glazed ice.

Soda drips on my shoes.

It’s been dark since

we got here. And I am from

tinny muzac and the long catwalk

with a stack of food. From

“order up” and “on the fly,”

from the cold slap

of the walk –in.

Becca and I dance with our hands

full, our hips swing around corners.

We are six more hours, three more

hours, one more. A fist

full of cash.