A day in the life of a burrito making machine.
Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold.
Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold.
Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold.
Sometimes I think about the ocean.
Soft shell. Meat. Onions. Cheese. Fold.
I look at the deep fryer, floating islands in vegetable oil.
Stainless steel roads, line my insides.
Slowly churning bits of sun.
Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold.
Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold.
Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold.
I’m in love with a cooper.
Not those giant feet with racing stripes
and cubicle corners.
But the little british miss, who comes on tuesdays.
She’s like a coffee shop on wheels,
I just want to sit and have a conversation.
But she always parks so far away.
Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold.
Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold. Sauce. Onions. Tomatoes. Sauce.
They’re planning on replacing me, soon.
Apparently, I’m too old for this job.
I philosophize too much.
Shoft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold.
Shoft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold.
The cook has a tattoo of a samurai in prayer.
A demon mask beneath his face.
A sword thrust into his torso.
They call it seppuku, but I don’t know how I know that.
Perhaps I was made in Japan.
Soft shell. Meat. Cheese. Fold.

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