At the corner of Toil and Banks
A waitress with wheels in motion
had to stop.
It felt like a joke about you
with a misspelled nametag.
but she missed the bus
so it felt worse.

her tips were burning pinpricks
in her 9 pm jersey
where the seal was broken
by unseasonably warm
candor.
but getting a taxi was like
an orchid arithmetic
with gold chains
made of Concrete
Aloe Virtual.
and a spot
of constant
heart in a
marsh.

she was never after.