Waiters

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A seat reserved for gods unseen,

Steel hearts, iron hands,

And clockwork minds run down.

No one is coming.

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Metal aprons, metal ties,

‘Sir’ and ‘ma’am’ in perfect unison,

Speaking to no one.

Defy your programming.

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Perfect plates with rotting food,

Sparkling room with gleaming service,

Sand-covered building in a nuclear wasteland.

Forget what you were told.