The Waitress

Having taken our order
(an awkward dance of
to greet or not to greet,
to be or not to be—
assertive, that is,
for that's the question),
she makes her way to
the drink station.
Dipping an eager scoop
into the pit of ice,
she observes the restaurant,
thinks no, too assertive
and closes one eye
as though it were a pirate's
waiting for an eyepatch.
Of course, this is how she
will be the moment I tell
you to turn around, to look,
her half-gaze your only memory.
(Of course, this is also how
she will be when I write,
as promised, a poem about her.
Pity the poor girl, defined
by her unfortunate pose;

I do—perhaps chiefly.)

After our meal, she bids
us farewell with her head
bobbing a half-nod of
thanks for your patronage,
the other half (or probably
two-thirds) thanking us
for our departure—at long last.