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Portrait ... Portrait of the Poet as a Young Pizzeria EmployeePortrait ... by ~eveneden
I try to remember what I thought of,
doing dishes in the tourist trap, smack
dab in the heartland, zip code Going Nowhere.
Had I been a poet then, I might've seen
in stained plates and warm, sticky beer
glasses some bizarre metaphor for love.
No one wanted me in charge of ovens,
but sharp knives were fine. Lemon slices
stung nicked thumbs; skinned carrots made
me think of penises. His, of course, though
just the one, and blank-nervous moments,
clockwork only where passion should've been.
Perhaps it was some Freudian revenge:
knives and penis-carrots, shedding layers
of heart
Excited 
Sta.sh
!
