She hands the menu and smiles,
introduces herself and the day's special.
Her jaw line tightens
as she suppresses a yawn.
Cracks appear on her lower lip,
creases in the corners of raccoon eyes,
furrows across her brow
like the rows of dried corn
that gently dance through the window
between her arm and her apron.
A smiley face stuck to her nametag
is hand colored red on yellow,
a child's crayon markings
like countless drawings
stuck to refrigerator doors.
She writes with her ring hand,
a deep impression on the bare third finger
like a dried moat that no longer protects
or gives comfort to friend or foe.
Veined legs dodge tables, chairs, demands
that she do this or that, go fetch,
there's a good girl, though reputations
dwindle, goes with the territory,
a misplaced hand, a salty gesture,
taken for granted services
that are never enough
and not on the menu --
"Excuse me, sir.
Is everything okay?
I see you're not eating."
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