A Poem About a Waitress

A Poem About a Waitress 

This is a poem about a waitress 
I saw at a diner last night.
I didn’t talk to her very much 
because I don’t talk to waitresses very much, 
especially the ones who are attractive.
And this one, in particular, was attractive,
so we didn’t talk 
more than we were supposed to.

When a waitress like her
takes my order,
when she says, “Hi, how are you?”
or when she scribbles little circles
with her red ball-point pen
in the corner of her paper pad
until the ink finally flows,
I gotta keep away.
I'm married, you see,
and I like to say
that in my own small way
I keep monogamy going.

She was wearing the outfit: a clean white
shirt that buttoned in the front,
black pants, black shoes, an apron,
but with her the uniform was different.
It was the way she wore the clothes,
the way they fit,
the way she moved,
but I don't want to get
carried away.
I'll just say
one more thing:
her hair was brown.

Was she sad?
The smile left her face
just before she turned her head
and walked back into the kitchen,
where she took orders from
short-tempered cooks and a lazy boss
who don’t understand her,
who don’t appreciate her.
They just give her orders
and then they go home.

I wanted to ask the waitress
if she liked Elvis Presley
and I wanted to tell her
that I had a motorcycle
and my name was Hunter,
but the only things we talked about
were where I wanted to sit
and what I wanted to eat
and what I wanted to drink.
Maybe she mentioned the weather.

And all I did was give her my order.
And all I asked her for a was
a hamburger, some french fries
and a soda.

A few minutes later
she brought me the burger,
the fries and the drink
and then she looked at me and said
“Let me know if you want anything else.”

After the meal my head felt hot.
I found my car in the parking lot.
I got inside and drove it home,
and this is the absolute end of this poem
because I don't want to talk about it anymore.