USA

ekf10@earthlink.net 

Waitress In A Restaurant In 
A Bad Neighborhood

I sit at a window table and watch,
beyond the wrought-iron bars, the trash
that stumbles end over end down the street
where the hollow-eyed junkie waits—
too much make-up and too little self-respect—
for her ride, a new trip every day.
Protected and safe, I turn inward
and take a sip. The beer is good and cold,
and not too expensive. And the waitress, mousy pony-tail
bobbing enthusiastically, she sways
among the crowded tables, hot, heavy
plates balanced as they climb up her arms.
She tosses the food like a Vegas dealer: a club sandwich
to the wrinkled suit at a table in the back; dripping, fleshy burgers
all around for the obnoxious university sweatshirts, empty beer glasses
crowding their table; fried steak and eggs, Tabasco sauce
and more thick, black coffee for the truck driver
dozing between sips in the corner.

She thumps down another beer mid-stride, serves the needs
I’m willing to pay for. She’s not bad
to look at, either. A little imagination
and I change the stiff polyester dress—the drab
brown uniform makes her look too pale and plain—
and mentally re-dress her: black pumps, ankle strap
of course and not too high, sheer black nylons
and the dark green sheath dress—the one I saw
at the store and wished I had someone to buy it for—
the long one with the slit up to there and the back
that fell all the way down to here. She plops
down the rueben and wipes sauerkraut juice
on her thigh. "Is there anything else
I can get you?" she says, her pony-tail aquiver—
maybe she hopes
for a bigger tip this time—
"No, this should do it."
text

© Copyright, 2000, Erik Fritz.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.