The Song of the Waitress


On the clock

looking down at the thin

minutes skipping in place

looking down on the seated

couple, a fly buzz buzzes under

their table looking down

a wide expanse of floor

like a polluted sky hugged and pinned down

on concrete cold foundation,

worms of carpet grass hold it in place.

Off the clock!

Looking up, chalking

every sound up to chirping

of the freedom birds, up up

and dash it doesn’t matter

wiggle toes, close the door, and away

and up to the self you cultivate

on the fly


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