Dishwashers
By Stephen Martin
My hands were under fire
From the hot water
Of neat dishes
Racked in rows
Stacked in rows.
Tony was my friend
His black skin glistened with sweat
Stamped into the kitchen.
We weaved through each other
Every weekend
During the rush.
He’d grumble under his breath a lot
But I could tell he liked my hustle
Even if I was “The Grandson”.
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