Working at the Greek Restaurant

If we are pretending that minimum wage employment 

is a joy, then yes, 

squeezing olive oil and vinegar from a plastic lid to one gold stream 

into 2 oz. cups for the take-out orders is

quite possibly the eighth wonder of the world. The arc

of them, smooth and direct, spilling only

when I lose my grip among the grease, the sound of them 

filling the cups indescribable 

except to say it sounds good, like fullness. 

If we decide it is a pleasure, then the way 

the plates stack in my arms while sanitizing tables 

is breathtakingly satisfying, I am simply 

the best busser at a franchise restaurant to have ever bussed 

at a franchise restaurant. When they are unbalanced 

and full of sway, we are dancing. Jiving, 

to the seemingly endless assortment of Greek covers 

of American pop songs, where Jolene is not Jolene, 

just esy. Me and the plates, 

lovers separated by the species of thing 

we are. I am a bit too human for their taste, and they 

carry the baggage of the unwanted specks of rice pilaf. 

And the food the kitchen slips us– 

feta soft, tzatziki smear, falafel green as junebugs–I might 

explode with the wonder 

of it all. Following health code guidelines, my hair is pulled back, 

but I want to let it free in the wind of this world

where even this job is a crumb of joy, 

this job a vocation, a noble calling, 

souvlaki in both my hands like weapons of war. 

The TV is pointless and always on sports 

and the A/C threatening 80 degrees in summer, but

the baklava sits in my hand, a piece of cloud 

and my feet aren’t hurting, simply singing, 

singing, from table to table to table.