The kid with the beard and the ***** apron,
he's just trying to make it.
His shoes have small tears on the sides,
from the way water saturates and weakens the material.
He’s got this way of gliding from table to table,
the same way a dancer owns a stage.
He slides plates of salt-ridden tacos currently in vogue
to a roomful of overfed, undersexed office drones

A woman in a skirt and flip-flops rolls her eyes at a salad.
A ******* in a blazer flicks a ****** under the table.
Still, there's a twinkle in the kid’s eyes,
like he's on the make.
If the right circumstances unfold
he’d snag a loose twenty
from a wallet or a purse.

This is the server's life,
always under the thumb,
hated and stressed,
but always laughing
at the end
of each shift.