The Waitress

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Go!

Go away, and take your long legs, and credit cards and pride, and disdain with you too.

I do not want you here anymore.

You lick my walls and leave piss on my toilet seat. (because you have never cleaned one)

Go home.

You cannot possibly afford seven dollars for a cheese sandwich; ( we're in the midst of a recession, didn't you know?)

Especially one for your child.

GO home, and feed them on rice and beans instead. (it’s cheaper)

If you can add a little of the month old block of cheese you found.

(Scrap off the blue parts first.)

But it’s ok if you can’t, the only one who will recall its absence is you.

(you hope)

And if your son cries (like mine does so often) and begs for something more, for some thing different, simply pat their head softly

(while you ignore the shooting pains in your legs. Pain that only comes from years of standing on your feet with no breaks)

and gently whisper to them what your own mother once whispered to you (when you once begged for something more without realizing the consequences)

“Hay un dia que usted comera como un Rey”