I’m not a poet, nowhere near. I know absolutely nothing about writing poetry or its bones. It’s just that, sometimes, I have to get something that’s on my soul out and this is simply how it comes.
Thanks for understanding.
Waitress
She tells me her life story instead of
taking my order.
Fresh. Nervous. Air-head.
Cute gap between her teeth.
Dumped her vicious 25-year-old boyfriend.
He cried.
She’s 17.
She swears she’s not going to change her mind.
He’s gone for good, her mouth says.
But her eyes struggle.
All I wanted was my order taken.
I wonder why she chose me.
I encourage her to not change,
to do what’s right for her.
I’m glad I took the time.
Razor marks crisscross her wrists
as I press a tip into her palm.
© July 2001
Manuscript. Head. Drawer. 