waitress: a tribute of sorts

you ask: is there any merit
in a life molded around six a.m. weekdays
(sometimes earlier),
bottles by the back door before suiting up–
in being a ninja of nourishment, catwalking on last night’s
oh my aching corns in too-tight shoes;

say hello to Old Man Rybjznski, return his toothless grin
(how the grandkids, Mr. Rib–
your youngest one,
she lose her teeth yet?
Yeah I know how that goes.)
twist-twist your broad hips
carving paths to the back rooms
and a moment of silence,
a smoke and then WHAM

(alwayshappenssofast!)

sixseven orders of waitwhichonewasitagain?
table six wanted vanilla sodas, twelve asked for beer
order up [lady you got change for a ten?]two more tables waiting and
my corns are screaming bloody murder
singsong hummingbird headache in temples of the mind
(I think I got one last Advil somewhere in here…)

and hours and hours of ninja-ing,
cajoling passing belly dancer-weaving (WATCH THOSE HASH BROWNS)
& last one!
last table to swipe clean while humming your love song,
last light shut off once Marty’s done mopping
untie, unleash, unwind:
another day done.

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