Who am I in this vast, open earth of different species
A species of the human race created from a clot of blood in the womb of a woman
One of a billion or more humans all created in the same way
But why was I created, what is my purpose on this vast earth
For surely nothing was created without purpose, otherwise why create at all?

So I was born in a hospital somewhere and there was happiness all around upon my arrival.
A new addition to the family someone to carry on the family name
I came into this world crying and all around me people were laughing with joy
If my arrival brought happiness why was I crying so much?
And so begs the question who am I and why was I created?

Like all humans, I was given a name to identify and make me unique.
Different cultures have different ways and different ceremonies to name their newborns.
But how come of all the species on this earth only human beings have names
Why don't animals, birds, insects who also produce offspring don't give names

So why was I created and what is my purpose on this earth?
I am still trying to find that out, just like a billion other human beings
After all, it cannot be that we were just put here on this earth
Everything that is here was put here for a purpose, a reason

I am sitting at a roadside café relishing the taste of freshly brewed coffee.
The waiter who brings me my coffee and croissants knows why he is there
To ensure the food and drinks I have ordered get to me on time
The right things are delivered to the right people at the right time

I also know why I am at the roadside café sipping hot coffee and enjoying hot delicious croissants.
I am searching for the answer to my lifelong question
Who am I?
I gaze deeply into my coffee, hoping to find the answer there
But all I see is a hot brown liquid with a fresh sensory smell

Shaking the grains
of salt like rain
over my fries
I bite into a burger
of my free order
and find a sizzling fly
You may laugh
but it’s a little rough
when dandruff
is white icing
on a blueberry pie
A free meal
is a risky deal
and I tell you no lie
once I found there
a metre hair
I choke and nearly die
I pull up to the counter
complain to the waiter
who couldn’t give a jack
just a dingy diner
at the mall
with free meals
and worse of all
you can’t ask
for money back

To be loved when its not convinient
To be loved for the hand gestures made when i talk about the netflix show i just got into
To be loved for the way i part my hair
To be loved for making a joke with the waiter
To be loved for taking the long route to get you a coffee
To be loved for being vulnerable
Oh to be loved for the smallest things and the big ones blindly.

I got this job because I was seventeen
Available everyday at three
In debt with a man after I went clean
My boss at the time was thirty six with a goatee
Five dollars an hour plus tip, you see
It was fine for me.

I met the others standing by the kitchen line
All of them with the same look in their eye
Lying to family and friends saying, financially, their fine
Getting nothing on a tip and never knowing why
Yet they return the next day to serve white wine

Looking around I see all of us wanted more
But I’m in debt and you have to pay the rent
Do it all in one day and go home to a son that’s four
Under the thumb of an old vice president

The roof over the kitchen is about to cave in
And we watch with silent eyes
Because our uniforms are being held with safety pins
Promised new ones but Corporate lies

And when the bubble in the ceiling pops
We’ll be by the dumpsters flicking cigarettes on the road
While the greedy pigs come in drawing lots
Waiting for the gas stove to explode

Paid vacation sounds lovely
Been here every week for the past year
Sometimes I’m called to  come in early
Pick up the broken glass from lunch rush beer

The people come in
Angry as they usually are
Now the glares don’t even touch my skin
It makes me laugh how many nasty people sit at the bar
The high-class families who come in for din

It’s been eight hours and six years
Since we started our shift
Staying here for three more is the biggest fear
But we’re already ******
We’ve been here for long we know this career

What else am I supposed to know
Other than how to make dough

It’s been a long night
You can see it in the height
Of cigarette buts by the dumpster
Where we can freely talk about the customer

It’s a busy life
Feels like we’re running out of time
To get out and ignore the strife
But there are times when the tips make us feel sublime

And we can buy a warm meal
Cause maybe it will heal
These aching muscles
That come from a constant hustle

Don’t you see why they say
At the end of the day
We need an ashtray.

you know what's creepy about humpty dumpty? they never said it was an egg
don't you dare sounds normal, but do not you dare sounds weird
envelopes are strange. its like here's a paper wrapped in paper that i sealed with my saliva
butter is food lotion
when you wait for the waiter you are the waiter

How much pain do I have go though until giving up is okay?

…
not yet
…

Wait until you’re called!

…
why are you fidgeting?!
…

Be patient!

…
almost
…

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.

My uniforms the same color as the napkins
My shoes are all covered in muck
The knife goes on the right side of the plate facing in
I'm starting to not give a ****

There's gum on the bottom of the tables
The foreigners tip me in dimes
This place is a ghost town on lunch shifts
So I sit at the bar cutting limes

If this double shift doesn't end soon
And the manager asks me to close
It's 4 am be back in 6 hours
Mid day ghost town doing fold ups and rolls

Does the steak best pair with the red or the white?
Do I look like one who tends to fine dine?
I'll just make some **** up to impress for a tip
And pray to God Facebook thinks I'm doing fine

I am NOT doing fine

Understanding
is something
that comes from
the daunting
reminder
that we are all the same

and it's not happiness
but the disheveled,
underpaid,
antagonizing
waiter
who launders around tables.

Being treated poorly
by people
that can't even
take the hands of time
to read the name
of a person that serves them life

the succulent roasted pork
with a side salad
or a bowl of broccoli soup
have more in common with
our suffering waiter
than the illiterate people.