I became a real waitress
when I started moving through tables with my hips
leaning over the table without spilling.
At night, men
tumble out of pick-up trucks.
From across the parking lot, I hold
my breathe as they infiltrate
they’re waiting like good dogs
nose deep and quiet
before I take their order.
I’m outstretched over the table,
breasts grazing over the cold
glasses of water like tea bags.
for simple things:
straws, extra ketchup
Right here, on my knees to find
the rolling plastic cup knocked
I watch them across the restaurant,
their elbows deep in cooked fat,
as I turn my back to the sound
of tearing flesh.