do you remember listening
to the oil spill for months.
gushing.
the sound smothered by distance.
what did it feel like.
you see pictures of beaches
with nothing on them years later.
macrometaphor.
you see how big death is.
and you here,
you're scared of getting someone sick
with the food you prepare.
smug part-owner insinuating
that he's an hourly wage-earner
like you are.
you without the strength to gush
the puss of your knifeknicks
that never heal
into his eyes,
throw clods of sink food
half a day festering
into his mouth,
then hold it closed,
"taste your fucking empire
before we burn it apart".
we were afraid that we'd leave
the gas running and blow up at work.
we weren't afraid to die,
but we were afraid to die
doing this punishing frivolity
for the people who don't want to cook
and the people who don't want to pay us
but sort of have to
a little.
