Taking Orders

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


effortlessly. Inside, 

they’re waiting like good dogs

head down, 

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. 

Pulled back 

by nature—returning 

for simple things: 

straws, extra ketchup

Anything else?


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. 


This poem is about: 



Lol. womeen dont work

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