'TWAS THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS...

Yeah, That’s How It ‘Twas …

 

‘Twas the day before Christmas and all through the store

The clerktures were stocking the shelves with more more.

The shoppers were whisking their carts through the aisles

With nary a pause for the checker’s wry smiles

For the last minute frantic, seekers of sales,

Deaf to the howling of their lost children’s wails.

And Tasha and I o’er the fryers presiding,

Ignoring the new boss’s chatter and chiding,

Filled orders for chicken by the pound and the piece,

As if breading and oil (please just don’t call it grease)

Were first gifts by tradition, required with zeal,

To note the occasion, poor folk’s holiday meal.

Still, still, still, the union requires a break for us all,

left the tongs to the boys, made the dash to ladies stall

with only slight hope they’d not make a great mess

of our tidy, efficient, order process.

With ten long minutes to fill before punching back in

Snuck the bell ringer hot coffee to offset his gin,

Then wandered past cases I’d soon be re-filling

Thus thwarting the work rules that frustrate the willing.

When back from our rest what a sight we did see,

An ocean of oil from the fryers set free!

The filter valve left open in haste they did leave,

Even no-slippy shoes gave no help or reprieve

From the wading in hot slick they made on our break,

No help their limp shrugging, “it was just a mistake.”

With squeegees and towels and spill-eaze by the quart,

Set them to swabbing, a not so festive new sport,

While we re-filled the wells with fresh bubbly goo,

With orders yet pending, nothing else would do,

Despite visions of mayhem that danced in our heads

And wishing those slackers had stayed home in their beds

(a call-off less trouble than trouble created

By half-hearted work from the uncomplicated).

At the counter the customers gazed on it all

With wonder, amazement, not one wing we let fall

As we skated on tiles to meet the demand

For the fried and the baked and a spit on hand

To spin the rotisserie birds roasted whole,

See grimace as grin, let no feast turn to coal,

Their parties saved in one hundred piece lots,

no disappointing their own tiny tots

expecting fresh drumsticks with cocoa to go

as they wait for Santa in fresh falling snow.

The nameless in kitchens in stores far and wide

Will know what I mean as I set this aside,

Merry Christmas to all as you hustle away,

The store’s closed tomorrow, and yes just for a day,

If it’s chicken you want, call some elderly elf,

Or you’ll just have to make it your own sorry self.

 

(Marthe G. Walsh)