Dishwasher
Sometimes when asked my vocation,
I answer “dishwasher”.
I learn more about the soul
From a stranger smoking wet
Cigarettes on a street corner.
Or the hooker who perfected
The five minuet trick,
Who taught me economics.
I wash dishes and listen
To the girls gossip:
About who is fat or ugly or high or strung out.
And I can’t stomach it.
So I keep the coffee hot
Watching the quick dance
Of consumption.
The history of it all.
Conversations matching the sweet
Cups of electric radio.
Everything still and bright,
Just like the moment before death.
And I watch or listen,
Distinctive hum of cycles,
Dots forever strewn from light to light,
The madness of wage, drifting trough this life
Silent and aware.
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