On my two-top young lovers gaze
at each other and talk, plan, share
her linguini, his prime rib. He butters
her bread and she murmurs, purrs.
Businessmen on per diems
pay for crass stares at my legs,
chest, hips with twenty percent tips.
Our king, the chef, rules his steamy
realm with steely eyes, paces his rum.
Later he’ll grow moist, maudlin, desperate.
The sous chef flirts, quips, chops and slices.
From behind the pastries, the old Greek
grumbles at the girls who pick up
meringues, tarts, and layer cakes.
The dishwashers talk broken-English
trash as they scrape plates-
not the paper-pale junkie.
His silence is frantic.
I hoist my tray with six covered dishes.
Never mind my bad back, no time.
At the big table a toddler’s made
an applesauce mess. His cool,
spotless mother requires my help.
Two more years and I’ll be a nurse.
With a gracious smile, I’ll dispense
pain pills a half-hour late
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