The lunch counter waitress is made
of one part wood, one part leather,
two parts Dr. Scholl's inserts,
one part a son by a prior marriage
one part a cloth doll she lost at age six,
and two parts rain. She wipes down
the counters at the end of her shift,
and complains about the new girl
she's been training all day.
"Nothing against her," she says,
"It's just that I do my best work alone."
"We all do," I tell her,
"we all do."