Waitress

I’m a waitress, I say

And Sir looks at my chest. Loin

Cooked to your liking? Murmur

Handing over the steak.

 

Who doesn’t like meat?

The vegetarians, you say,

And vegans, I nod agreeing

Lesbians? Your date butts in.

And we laugh but I hate you.

 

I’m a poet, I whisper in insistent instants

And duck away.

I should flee in black-cape to my misty night.

But all I have is goodwill rags and grimy street-streaked light.

 

Trade this, tit

For chomp. tip

For a romp, as

with all things,

 

Am I right?

 

Now tell us of love, they say, from your lover’s one dictation and your dreams.

Does Freud apply to your childhood?

What school of thought?

Are you more Homer, or Virgil?

And we all sigh. Because those questions don’t matter,

only medium, rare, or well done?

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