It was called scullery
the place where returned dishes were washed
glasses, cutlery, plates, cups
the detritus of dinner for 1200.
It was my first day
they had been before.
Rinse, scrub, sterilise
they knew the drill.
I load and unload the machine
skipping from jaws to anus
of a 3 metre beast – of heat, noise and steam
which stops – unannounced.
The senior
squat, brick outhouse muscular
with chest thatch escaping his t shirt
onto shoulders
and down his back
bellows energetically
“kick it in the cunt.”
“Yeah,” growls the other without enthusiasm
“kick it in the cunt.”
I am motionless
with a grin to Jack Nicholson nervous
the hirsute one advanced on the machine.
“EEEEEyaaah,” overtures a roundhouse kick
it burst back into life.
“That’s how you do it.”
I spent the rest of the shift praying it wouldn’t stop again
For the back story click Backstage.
Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry 