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)
