The Waitress

A jukebox whirs in the corner

as the waitress scribbles

my order for steak and eggs.

Smoke lingers above a couple

in the next booth as the woman

gestures with a cigarette

at a man whose eyes stare blankly

at a piece of lemon pie.

The ceiling tiles are stained yellow

from thousands of cigarettes

while dirty cobwebs droop

from speakers that occasionally

generate a honky-tonk tune.

The waitress brings me my coffee

and leaves without a word

to ring out a balding gentleman

and snatch a pitcher to fill glasses.

Her long brown hair perches

atop her head in a bun,

her face shows wrinkles earned

before their time.  Her motions

portray no happiness. Her eyes,

vacant as she shuffles over

with my food and leaves again

to clear off another table.

I begin to conjure stories

in my mind about her life.

Maybe she cared for her sick mother,

never became a nurse, sentencing

herself to a life of waitressing

in a third-rate greasy spoon.

Perhaps she got pregnant

by her high school sweetheart,

dropped out to raise her son,

married the father and now

labors to support his beer habit

and odd beanie baby fetish.

It seems to me she simply floated

day to day, an empty shell,

not seeing the world before her

until ultimately

tomorrow was today

and yesterday slipped away

like others before, abandoning

her to this mundane existence.