Line Cook

I do not live in the dining room
I live in heat

the ticket printer is a metronome
the rail is time made visible
nothing waits

my body moves before I think
muscle memory is cheaper
I calibrate by sound and smell

the floor shifts under oil and water
every step is negotiated

I do not taste
I produce

I eat standing
three bites
fuel

burn scars are a calendar
speed outruns precision
and leaves a mark

the pass is the only horizon
everything flows toward it
nothing returns

mistakes do not apologize
they refire
there is no narrative
only sequence

front of house does not see me
unless something breaks
invisibility is correct operation

the walk-in is thirty seconds of silence
then back to heat

the dishwasher is my ally
we do not speak
we share the tempo

I am not the plate
I am the condition that produces it

stay sharp
stay moving
stay calibrated

the rest
is tickets