Waitresses Surround, Bartender Waits

I.

Young waitress, no more than 19,
full of life and immature hope
flirts lust. Soggy warm thighs of
a tease fills imagination. They slap and
rub each other,
friction strides. A short, faded

denim skirt surrounds her thighs like a
lampshade that hides
the on/off switch. The lamp’s base
constructed of animal pelt boots,
maybe puma.

But white fur flushes out, towards the top,
tickles the knee.

Some of the older drunks at the bar
force hugs of friendship on her. They
love young breasts
resting on empty beer bellies. The smell of

exotic fruit seduces from her hair. Brown fingers grope,
slink into the drunk’s rot mouth.

II.

The bartender laughs, mixes drinks,
passes a book of matches to an old man. The
old man thanks the bartender for the matches and tells him,
“When you do something you like for too long you’ll become
what you hate and hate what you once loved.” A man in a
Notre Dame hat asked the bartender to put on golf.

A middle-aged woman glides from the kitchen’s entrance. She
grabs a brown plastic tray full of beers and mixed drinks from the
bar. She’s in the second hour of a double, four cigarettes inhaled. Her shirt
already has something wet on it. Just under her left saggy breast.

The waitress struts over to a booth occupied by some
guys in their early twenties, places the tray on an adjacent table, and
grabs the drinks for the guys on her left first. She gives the ones to her right
theirs and walks over to a table with a man and two women. The man
says something to the waitress and she goes over to an empty table,
retrieves a black ashtray, takes it back to the threesome in the booth.

The waitress takes their drink order and heads back to the bartender. She pushes
in a chair in on her way. The repetition will continue every hour
of her shifts. It always does. There’s no golden sun waiting when
the people are done. Just small amounts of green and silver.

III.

The old waitress peers out,
over reading glasses;
drugstore bifocals
coated black.

She’s got a bill
for a party
of eight.
Automatic
twenty percent
gratuity.

The shift just got better.
An extra five dollars added to
the gratuity tip.
An action worthy of
a loud toast
to the passage
of another night
complete.

IV.

A brown haired lady appears from the staircase. She and her
husband own the place. She walks over to the bar and gives
the bartender change. A regular says hello to her and she smiles,

gives him a shot of whiskey on the house.
She strolls over to the salad bar, checks the
lettuce, tomatoes, dressing, and the
other items that one can use to make
their perfect salad. She turns around and
inspects the three metal soup containers, swirls each
a couple of times and goes
back down the stairs.

V.

Finally, my waitress comes back to me. She asks, “Have another?” and I say, “Please.” Her brown, curly, hair dangled like men in the noose. The locks of hair were bouncing spirals, corkscrews, kitten’s paws. She was an attractive waitress. I’m glad I sat in her section. The wooden boards here seem more lumbar accommodating when she smiles.