"we've got fire roasted fajitas, Angus bacon cheddar burgers,
fresh pesto chicken sandwiches, blackened Tilapia
with cream sauce"
say this with hunger in your eyes,
even if you're fingering the fifty
in the pockets of your apron
just to get your mouth watering.

"how about a cold glass of beer
with just the right amount of head?"
if it's a man, you offer the slightest
smile, so quick it could have been
the neon lighting, red as a freudian slip.
if it's a woman, you're stone faced, somber
as a priestess. if it's a couple, melding together
on one side of the booth, you offer soda.

"excuse me, miss. this is not what i ordered."
and you're back in the kitchen, telling the manager
about that bitch at a four top in the twenties
who ordered medium rare veal, but says
she can't stand the sight of a little blood.

a customer with two chins looks up from table ten
and you're no longer able to think of poetry
or how to subtly fit a woman and an apple
on the same page.
"excuse me, miss. you gave me
fruit instead of fries"

you smile is demure when you accidentally,
languidly dribble cherry juice across the expanse
of his lap. "can i get you anything else?"