The Artist
by Donald Fisher

He throws pans across the room
slams plates down
skids around the kitchen with a sharp knife
calls the wait staff “useless fucks”

Then there’s his misogyny
let’s not even go there

“But his sauces rock!”
say the folks at the tables out front
“and his scampi is to die for”
Fine, I tell them, you work with him.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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