On the Serving Line

On the Serving Line

You scoop soupy refried beans
onto white foam trays, plopping
the sludge into the little rectangle,
plopping the tray on the counter,
as Boy Scouts pass by. Some say hi,
some say they don’t want beans,
some stay silent.

Today Mike’s there, you’re favorite
boss, the manager who lets you
listen to the radio. Ever since you
switched to dinners about a month ago
things have been better.

A woman a little younger than you,
a lady in a dress, comes through the line,
and you don’t know what she’s doing here,
with all these Boy Scouts.

You look at her body a little longer than
you should; you want to give her
another scoop of beans, or better yet,
a piece of cake from the back,
but you know you shouldn’t; you've been
warned about sexual harassment.

She asks if there’s any meat in the beans.
You say no and wonder if she’s a vegetarian.

You scoop the beans onto her tray,
taking care not to let the beans spill
over the little walls of the rectangular
compartment on the white foam tray.

She moves on,
you never see her again,
and you're still scooping beans.