by Hillary Lyon

the name of this polish
is "I'm Not Really a Waitress"
and beneath it my fingernails are
sleek as a Mustang
classic with candy-apple red paint job
engine a-purr at the light
catch my eye and I'll challenge you
hand on the eight-ball knob
I can shift so quickly
you'll think I've found the worm-
hole in Newton's apple
and I have -- now
what would you do if I flipped
the passenger door open
revealing all that chrome and white leather
interior with sunshine spilling over
each roll -- glinting off each incarnadine nail
tap-tap-tapping the seat with that amatory signal
from woman to man
get in -- would you
turn left at the light or would you
park on the street
(driver side door ajar, keys swaying in the ignition)
become the eye
in my rear-view mirror, the laugh every time
I remind you
I'm not really a waitress

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