Working at the Sandwich Shop
A boy with slick shined black hair and gnats in his smile wants
to know if I can write my number in Chipotle sauce on the bun.

His friend requests exactly eighteen black olives.

A girl on a cell phone informs me that the cucumbers and tomatoes
on her sub absolutely cannot under any circumstance touch each other,
but it’s okay if they, like, nudge.

My back is a popular lunch table. My sweat is everyone’s
favorite flavor.

Sometimes, people attempt to engage in some sort of strange
casual chatting when I ask what I can get for them.
Pro tip: Yeah dude, the weather outside is frightful.
Now tell me what you want on your fucking sandwich.

I am literally paid to smile.

Understand that if you try to crudely flirt with me
in the toppings line, I will give you the meat with all the fat.
I am not your babe. I do not owe you a single thing
but this here sandwich and a complimentary napkin.

There is mayonnaise on the bridge of my glasses
and my fingers are pruning with pickle juice.

I accidentally charge one kid two thousand and sixty-three
dollars for a white macadamia cookie instead of $2.63. My hair smells
like Jalapenos. There is exactly two minutes and thirty-six seconds

before we close and my shift is over, so naturally the entire
football team decides now is prime time to order thirty sandwiches.

When I clock out and start my homework,
my textbook is stained with spicy mustard.

I will never spit in your sub for revenge. I admit:
I am thankful to be working at all. So I will smile
with all my teeth. I will swaddle your sub in paper
like a newborn. I will tell you to have a good day.

But tonight, I will wash my apron
in the blood of rude customers.