My last boss said I should lay down dough
For some kneepads; I said maybe
I should lawyer up, everybody’s
Such a comedian. But that’s spilt milk,
Nobody’s crying. And I don’t need
No kneepads anyway. I don’t complain.
Not that I’m a faultfinder
Miss, oh no. You wouldn’t guess how
I strip you with my eyes, neither.
So equitable you are, Elizabeth,
Missus, Miss, Mistress,
Bitch: what’ll I call you
When I get you where I will?
Occupy this, strike that, turn
That other cheek this way
So my hand lands even-like.
These are lowbrow Marxist mindgames,
Sure. Even so, I’d say you’re not quite
Cut out for the restaurant business.
You know, I could split you like fruit, spit-
Swap with you, spank you. You won’t cry ‘no.’
Just mop you up-- and wring you out!
On the floor, behind the register,
Broom closet, mail room, back seat
Delivery. Christ, I sound like a horny
Hippie midwife. I gotta try and stay
Polite, uptight, on time, ready
On cue. But good impressions
Precede worse. Lizzy, I’m not through.
We’re both biding time till
I order up your better talents. Hot
Fudge banana-splits, just whatever
Shit I put on your menu, no?
Yeah baby, your hands are slippy.
‘N’other clean-up, I got it covered.
Spilt milk. You’ll have to try my tea-
Cup. Got it from my momma.
Glazed pearl. Nothing bridal. Good for daily
Use. I’ll pour. Don’t worry ‘bout
Your pinky. Just curl it in too.
Yeah, you’re a little teapot Eliza.
I’ll just tip you over. Doll parts
And parties every day. Drink up.
You’re just gonna love my new job.
This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than Lushstories.com
with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.
<a href="http://www.lushstories.com/stories/love-poems/spilt-milk.aspx">Spilt Milk</a>