Mike told me to clock out at tenfifteen

Mike told me to clock out at ten-fifteen

then handed me the scraper for the vats.

He says it’s about the team, about the pride,

while he goes to his car and lights a smoke.

My hands are shaking from the caffeine and the heat,

scrubbing the burnt bits of breading from the coils.

The air in here is a thick, yellow soup

that sticks to my throat and won't wash out.

I catch my face in the bus window's smudge,

my pores choked with lard and a cheap salary.

I’m sixteen years old and I’m already cooked,

just another thing being sold by the gallon.