With wrinkled fingers
that smell of onions and soap,
Juanito eats cake by the mouthful
down in the kitchen’s sub-basement.
Salsa plays on the radio,
while laughter and the clink of glasses mix
with weed and cigarette smoke as the cooks
chop vegetables for tonight’s soup.
The realm of a dishwasher is a
dark, forgotten place as vegetable rinds
lie scattered on a greasy tile floor.
Juanito is always wet and hot,
and a little drunk on warm beer that
rests atop the sink,
as he looks at all the discarded food
and dreams of something with
butter and basil.
Forty-five minutes later, while
tasting the gumbo,
the sub-basement scatters as
somebody yells Immigration!
The head chef comes down the steps laughing,
and heads into the storage area for
a quick fix before the
next rush begins upstairs
Half drunk and redolent of
soapy onions and celery,
he picks at the seafood linguini that
rests on the shelf, next to
the flour and cornmeal
and thinks about the bar after work,
about the waitresses upstairs,
imagines fucking them in their
clean apartments without
a sinkful of dirty dishes,
their perfume and shampooed hair
and knows full well
they’d never shag him.
The bartender gets it all,
with his clean, dry clothes and
witty sense of humor. He’s got
real money in his pockets,
tips for being quick with a match as he
slips the cooks a drink for the extra shrimp.
Juanito collects garbage from
the mouse-infested waste area
filled with empty oil boxes
and opens the cellar’s trap door after
walking up slippery metal steps
and goes to the corner to
find a homeless person willing to drag
twenty bags of garbage
up the steps and onto the curb
for three dollars.
After his chores,
dry clothes and pruned hands
will find themselves at a bar
laced around a glass of beer
as he thinks about the waitress of his dreams—
the woman who doesn’t realize
that she’s the only person who
understands him so well.
