Fresh night air breezes past me,
Funneled down though parking garages,
Running over brick roadways past the backside of restaurants
And through the smoke of every kitchen employee
Burning on the back street.

The smell of fresh brewed trash hangs faintly in every moment,
But goes mostly unacknowledged by all.

Thus the wheel turns

Cook, clean, run, serve, smile
Toff tiny tippers are tools, trickling
Down scented cash while mine smells like sweat.
Tip for tiny tippers. Tip better.