he dawns a pair of checkered chef pants and a black chef jacket
slips on an apron and yawns,
plates of all sizes and shapes crowd his little table five rows deep,
like ancient roman pillars towering over nothing
the kitchen is a swarm with waiters yelling out orders,
bus boys struggling with water glasses
he meanders over to the machine,
a long sliver snake and flips the switch
"order up! order up!" screams a line cook
worried the food will dry out under the heat lamp in the window
with a roar the machine kicks to life
as he stares blankly at the half eaten chocolate eclares and fried calimari stuck to the dishes
he thinks how great it must have tasted, as well as how rich these patrons must be to waste such art,with a shrug of his shoulders he pulls a stack over and begins to feed the machine
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