She walked past me swiftly
to grab another order in queue
Her bare arms,
tattooed with burn marks
from spitting oil
An angry customer barged in
and threw a "meat-cicle" at her
bitter words lashed —
her bare arms
She excelled conflicts of interest
Horrified and amazed,
I looked at her
with plastic gloves on
while the machine beeped nonstop
She only shrugged,
returning my respect—
“Sixty hours per week,
you will get to master these.”
My scar-free hands
looked even whiter than before—
we both are thirty