The grill runner

couldn’t run

if you paid him,

not with 30 kilos

of portable workstation

strapped to his shoulders:

refrigerator, gas tank,

bratwurst, bread rolls,

mustard, ketchup,

the odd civility

of serviettes …

he clicks his tongs

calls bitte schön,

shifts his load

from foot to foot,

turns the browning

sausages over

as rain turns to sleet,

as the elements retrace

their steps through his marrow.

If it doesn’t kill him today

he’ll do it again tomorrow.