In the industrial kitchen I take red debris from the dish

down to the houses of hot water and brush

steel and the epigrams of soap

the bubbles basket-edging

what giblets and tags of pasta

candlelit mouths reject

and leave behind

as diners drive to darkened kitchen

together and segue into sundry bedroom

or alone and stand at the sink and lie

I give back grinded to the sewers

skin-like skin of eggplant, spooned inside

the lamb bones bleated shut and opened

waking bright and clean I return

platters to their spinal stack

and in sterile silence hang

yellow gloves back on the ledge