Our Best Work

 

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."

Comments

[earning a prophet's wage]

I love that waitress.

I bet she smokes, has chicken legs, closing in on 50, and has a whiskey voice. The new girl wont last long, though she is pretty, but a bit chunky.

I would tip the old one better.

Just my thought.

[Ninotchka]

Indeed.