Water Mains, Letters, Striped Toes

What a strange day! No, maybe strange isn't the right word. Unusual, maybe. Interesting. Good.

A water main broke at my office today, and everyone was sent home at noon. Who doesn't dream of this - the week before Christmas you suddenly have an afternoon free to get all sorts of details taken care of. I ran 17 random little errands and the two halves of my soul kept high fiving each other.

Early in the evening I got a beautiful letter from an old professor. It was a letter of recommendation, and he said such wonderful things that I actually put the letter down and cried for a little while. I wasn't crying crying - it was just a strange mix of things I couldn't quite pinpoint. I think I was touched by the things he said, disappointed in myself for not always believing those same things, and a little nostalgic for the past.

My unexpected crying jag got me thinking about all sorts of things, and the end result (just go with me here) is the posting of a poem I wrote in college. Please enjoy...


The Ballad of the Hot Cooks

We are the hot cooks.
Hairy and thick voiced and heavy are we.
We dance in a cloud of flour and grease
in our kitchen domain with our
tall white hats and striped feet.

We mock the cold cooks.
They have not our skill,
our thick hands so perfect for tearing meat.

Leering at the waitresses
as they scurry away
to avoid our stares
while our knives go chop-chop.

Matching tattoos
done with a rusty skewer
on our biceps: born to cook.

we twirl
we chop
we slide
we grunt
we glaze
we leap
we knead
we play

we link arms and tap our striped toes.

In the kitchen. Evey night.
Into the morning.