Barry Island photo by Mike Vaughan
DOWN TO THE PAN-WASH
This was the lowest you could get
down to the Pan-wash,
just the two of us
and nobody wants to talk
to the very smelliest.
Drains and sinks clogged,
meals’ remains like vomit,
Health and Safety sniff
and then move on rapidly :
we are beyond remedy.
Such a long way from Red Coats
with their stage presences,
or Security with their badges ;
even from the lines and kitchens
where there are others to share it.
My workmate’s toiling in his pants
and doing penance for sins
he simply won’t confess,
as I‘m scrubbing and scouring
pot after plate after pan.
Hands lost in the scummy water
and the rank odour of rotting food
sticking in my nostrils and throat ;
a thirst long as Barry Island beach,
taste like sea, my skin’s drip.
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