String

Eight o'clock PM,
In the evening time.
Closing time.
We turn out the overhead lights in the
dining room areas.
Start cleaning up the messy place for the
5AM morning shift.
I glance down at the restaurant's tile floor.
There's a broken strand of an old worn out,
Dingy white cotton mop top.
Age,
Repeated use and dirt,
Bleach and meat grease,
Have all degraded the cotton mop head from its
original pristine, clean white,
Wrapped-in-aplastic-bag glory.
Yes,
The business end of the mop has definitely seen
its better days.
I scoop the cotton string up into my hand.
Make my way to the trashcan.
Then,
When the restaurant's cleanup chores are done
for the night,
I take my apron off and head for home.
At the end of the eight-hour money-making workday,
Now's the time for a little poetic wordplay.
A piece of string.
A piece of string.
A piece of string.
Such a silly little thing really.
What can I say about a simple piece of string
that hasn't already been said before?
Well,
I mean,
What is a piece of string exactly?
It's cloth.
And cloth comes from plants.
Let me see,
You have polyesther and tweed blends,
Dacron and rayon,
And then there's the famous Herring Bone
Weave Pattern used by the Ancient Egyptians
in their mummification practices.
And you also nylon and mylar.
And let's not forget the irresistable touch
and soft feel of cotton,
The main clothing fabric of our lives.
There.
How's that?
How's that for a poem about a piece of string?
Tie a piece of kite string around your index
finger
For something important's remembrance.
But if you're anything like me,
You'll have soon forgotten what the piece
of string is there for.
And so now ends my ode to a piece of string,
Such a miniscule,
Insignificant thing.


Copyright 2006 By Andy Duane Burkhart.