"waitstaff" poems
i've been a woman for nineteen and a few months years
and i've never looked at waitstaff
and asked
can i get that with a side of guilt?
but i should have
because it feels like that's what i
am ordering
instead of fries because
all the salt in the world
can't cover up the taste of guilt and self loathing i feel for eating sometimes
this is for all of the ladies i know who look at cookies
longingly, but tell themselves no
only to eat an entire box of them later
and cry
and most women will never admit to it
but i've been there
and cookies don't taste so good when
you're tossing them up
and this is for the ladies i have watched in the grocery store
eyeballing the candy bars like they are men in dark
allies or
snakes in the grass
because the magazines sitting right beside
them are watching you watching that candy bar watching you watching your weight watching those inches around your waist watching you
and telling you that you aren't good enough
a moment on the lips forever on
the- hold that ******* thought
because my lips and hips have two things in common-- they are big
and they want all this
******** to stop
every time a woman prattles off how many calories are in a drink
i can't help but correct her in my mind because
i know for a fact that there are five more calories in that than she told me
because i've been counting calories and playing games with my stomach since
second grade.
i may be **** at algebra, but i know intake out-take math like
i know the smell of my grandma's cigarettes.
eating meals with other women
is unbearable because i am tiered
of having to eat entire cinnamon buns
to myself because
my friends wont split them with me
and i'm tiered of watching women
talk about eating too much but
wanting to get
back
on
it
tomorrow like
feeding themselves is a crime
and so the next time i go to
cookout for a blueberry shake
i'll ask you to leave out the guilt
because it fills my throat up
like sand and my teeth
are brittle and tired from being
bared and ground
while i
battle with myself
over the baked goods at
a coffee shop
wondering if
i feel like hating myself
today
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
In what chair was patience seated before we met?
At the long table where acquainted faces were eager to eat
we sat at each end, like king and queen and let the lines of empty dinnerware
and the cattail centerpiece divide our once linked gazes.
But I felt that wary stare peeking between leaves,
your gleaming mouth moving in vehement whisper, cursing yourself.
I see everything, but I pretend to know nothing as I place napkin in my lap,
looking past the guests beside me, into the kitchen door window.
You observe with intent, you assume my watch is bent to our friends.
Dinner isn’t ready, and everyone is restless.
I am quiet, and apologetic for the fellow who chose this venue,
because I know he probably feels no remorse, and only anger,
for the waitstaff spinning around the other tables.
Compassion isn’t a cell worth refueling for this company,
with large brains and demands, but space and time consuming bodies.
Our cups are dusty as our carpeted souls.
I see my fingerprints all over yours, through the constructed cold and cattail,
Clean, round spaces where I really knew
I touched you.
A lonely fool perked up, finally and thank goodness, drink is to be served.
How else would we last while our bellies rumbled with distaste and depravity?
I watched her pick her scabs and toss a pound of flesh to a neighboring plate.
It was yours.
You were too busy glaring at me with loan shark’s interest.
I am but a merchant who didn’t know what to sell and where to sell it,
but closed business when my ship found asylum on an island.
My visage no longer appetizer, you eat the poison on your plate.
It was an inerasable memory that the smell of cooked meat and spices interrupted.
But everyone was too drunk to remember we were hungry.
And I was too sad to order anything, anyway.
So I waited, glancing down, moved my napkin to wipe my lipstick off,
and on my lap, I saw,
Patience in between my knees, on my royal wood grained seat.
I look up, and once again, our eyes meet.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 7:57 AM UTC
A restaurant's closing at the corner of Front Street and Central
. . . I've never been,
but I've glimpsed through the windows decor that was sure ornamental.
(Word on the street's that the eats were alright - the plates were too large - but the waitstaff were nice! Patrons, served tiny portions, were alarmed at the price - 'til they drank the last drop of red wine)
The place had a name before this iteration
They called it The Tempest before renovations.
I had been there
- I'd been pleased by the service,
been famished, then satisfied,
and surprised by dessert -
I'd been all kinds of things.
I had been cheesecake and you were crême brulé
and for a moment we shared a plate.
It might have been just the right size,
but I can't quite remember.
Were the waitstaff pleasant? - I desperately hope that I was...
The company was one of a kind.
For whatever reason, The Tempest closed,
and the place that has replaced it has closed,
& who knows what will be on the corner of Front Street and Central next?
all I know is that
all kinds of things
stop being
a piece of cake
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC
They hustle and bustle, through the days and night.
Waiting on people, so there food will taste right.
They pour me my coffee, they put up with my smoke.
My loitering they swallow, and don't even choke.
This waitstaff works hard, some people don't see.
All the work they put into, serving you and me.
There wages are low, and tips can be poor.
Some customers may even, leave there manners at the door.
But still they work hard, and smile to you.
When you leave this place happy, it's good service that's true.
Many have bills, or families to raise.
They depend on your tips, to get through the days.
So when you come in, remember all the work.
These people try very hard, so don't be a ****
There customers they like, and we like them as well.
Treat them with respect, don't give them any hell.
Oct 26, 2010
Oct 26, 2010 at 6:19 PM UTC