The Dance

The Dance

It’s called the line, and each night we dance:

Bend, twist, lift, swing –

A ghostly symphony that waits and plays by ear.

 

 An orchestra:

Pots, pans, oil sputters, the Garland burner roars,

Refrigerators hum, a freezer’s occasional chime.

 

Pivot right, turn left, the MICROS begins to sing,

The rhythm crests, pulses.

Entrees hot and salads cold.

 

We dance our dance, a performance never seen

Receives the standing ovation it deserves.

 

We know our parts, and wait expectantly.

The MICROS sings, the rush begins:

Focus, push – the line moves as one.

 

Cooks, shoulder-to-shoulder:

Adrenaline rush, purpose,

Entrees hot and salads cold.

 

We dance our dance, a performance never seen

Receives the standing ovation it deserves.

 

Foxtrot lively, brisk, quick,

Nicoise, Waldorf, Cobb, Caesar,

Salsa picante, moves meringue – sweat, pivot, timing.

 

Seared halibut, glazed spring vegetables,

Well-done rib eye, tempura onion rings, peppercorn,

Sweet symphony, graceful, finesse.

 

Tiramisu, sorbet, cobbler,

Macaroon, red velvet,

Entrees hot and salads cold.

 

 

We dance our dance, a performance never seen

Receives the standing ovation it deserves

 

We special few cook with hand, heart, and mind,

Converting more than recipes from books,

A mirepoix of memories and tradition.

 

 

The bounty of the earth:

So, night after night we gather –

Hot kitchen, cold kitchen.

 

 

Begin the dance.

The chorus sings:

Entrees hot and salads cold!

 

We dance our dance, a performance never seen

Receives the standing ovation it deserves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Post Categories: Poetry that Feeds You, Writers Block

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