PENKNIFE

standing in a kitchen
washing up pots
time to kill
so i sit down lots
lowest member of the staff
no point denying man
now i'll try my hand at a
yellowy frying pan

if i say it's for the dollar
it would sound like i'm lying man
my life in a kitch
and i feel like a dying man
dishwasher represent
the tears of a crying man
still won’t flush the yellow
yolk from the frying pan

i remember showing this poem to my friend and he grimaced and said: hardest job in the world, and he made it ambiguous to mean either dish-washing, or poetry-writing, and he made it ironic enough to possibly mean that neither was really that hard, and i was probably not good at either of them anyway.

i spoke to him recently and he said: “i DO DO creative stuff, but i don’t share it. when i die, it will all become available”. it’s this mentality i’m fighting by sharing all these texts, and my weapon is not my poetry, but my mere bravery.