In his baritone voice, Sinatra sings from the restaurant’s speakers,
To celebrate this night we found each other, oh-oh, let’s get lost,
And I hum along with my wrist deep in a stockpot of hot water,
With forearm on fire while I let the steel wool do my dirty work,
With the smell of burnt alfredo remaining stubborn to evacuate,
With the sounds of my meth-eyed coworker screaming to himself,
His hands flat against both cheeks, his hips rocking back and forth
In a tarnished and frayed leather chair beneath the speaker…lost
In a romantic mist, I think of my wife, of the vast seas between us,
Of the reason why I’m here tonight, with the new smell of trash
And water, from the broken system of faulty machinery, washing
Dishes—from the broken system—and doing all my dirty work,
While I bleed from my fingertips, where the filthy and the foul
Hot soapy water infused with little burnt specks of shrimp tails
And linguine all pour in to my tiny bread knife cut, and I smell
Like sweat that mixes with alfredo, and I think of my wife in an
(Un)romantic mist of hard work, of pride in sweat, in not slipping
In non-slip boots, in stained black aprons while standing tall before
A tower of flat cardboard—pizza boxes, needed—yes, needed—to
Be built, so they could function, so they could serve their purpose,
So they could be more stable than that youthful frightened face
That goes moaning between its hands—to celebrate this night
We found each other—no, really, seriously, let’s get fucking lost.
