Sour Creamed Customer Service

You were anything but
your name-badge “Joy”;
with your sunken face and
sour demeanour,
your cigarette sallow skin,
covered bloodhound jowls as
you stood colder than the freezer.

You snatched my money and
without pleasantries or spoons
you thrust me my food
whilst simultaneously sucking
all the oxygen from the room.

You burnt my salad
with your scowl
and froze my cubed cheese
with your breath;
telepathically I tried to make you smile;
you serve food
not timeshares on behalf of death!

I wrote this on the back of my till receipt from my local supermarket.
I made the mistake of complaining about the quality of the meal I had been served. The manager brought over the canteen supervisor and I was transfixed by the fact that she was absolutely, 100% devoid of all human emotion. It was as if I were talking to a bowl of soup. I think I will print out a copy of this poem and put in in their suggestion box.

©  Copyright D. Archer October 2011

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