Breakfast at the Diner
My waitress, an under-the-table
aged working woman,
knows the menu front-to-back like the Bible,
looking down on me, caring for me
through normal glasses resting under her eyes,
on the edge of her nose, as I study the menu.
“What can I gitchu this mornin’?”
You know she has waited forever,
and she is okay with that. Or not,
but she is okay with not being okay with it.
“Hun, I’ve been here so long
I can’t get the smell of gravy off my skin.”
Or the toasty texture of her hands, I notice,
as she reaches across the table to refill my coffee.
She dreams in three-dollar tips
and prays in daily specials.
She has become what she eats and serves—
blueberry muffin tops
flopping out over grease-stained jeans,
honey-smoked hams
pushing out the back pockets.
Her shoes are tattered,
they shine with grease from the kitchen.
The sun peers through the drive-thru window,
checking her out. I want even her shadow
to come sit next to me in this booth.
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