Breaking glasses,
Smashing plates,
Spilling hot food across the carpet,
Chilled white wine, splashing on the tabletop,
The chef shouts and holds a knife,
The women and her children,
Seeking a hiding place
Under dinner tables and tablecloths,
The sounds of his screams are
Glossed by the smooth jazz through the walls,
His rag-time tantrum,
He was done taking orders
And all he got
Was a wine bottle
On the back of the head.

-Jamie F. Nugent