waitress poems

I recently have found a lot of poetry that I had forgotten about because I didn’t have it in my computer. I have spent some time now putting things into this representation of “paper”. This series of poems I wrote in 2001 when I was waiting tables. Every one of these poems was written in between waiting on tables and all of them were written on the back of my order taking pad. I had completely forgotten about them until I found them while packing for a move. Boredom sometimes produces something good I suppose.

Waitress Poems
Written 2001


Blushing warm boys
forget what it means
to be subtle. They
kick back their dark
ales and eye me
like a sweet sweet
chardonnay dream,
calling at ill advised
hours, leaving strung
out rambling messages.
I save them for reasons
I can not really say.
It isn’t their voice, nor
is it the words they
string together in a
drunken speech.
Maybe it is the tone,
or the melody.
maybe it is my body’s
reaction to utter truth—
to words he won’t remember
saying in the morning.


They hang upside down.
shards of glass caught inside
oval cone shapes they hold
with such elegance.
Crystal words drip down
the length of their legs,
as if singing words from
each pair of lips that has
held them.

I saw a man with my father’s
eyes. Caught off guard,
I almost spoke to him;
felt at home as my hand
naturally saught his direction.
until I saw his mouth,
how it didn’t curl the same,
how the way he spoke didn’t ease me.
Then the hollow came, as if at
moment, the voice of my father
was the only familiar thing
in my life.


He sits like a little boy under
his mother’s piano—she hasn’t
played in years.

You glimpse a foot; which he
doesn’t know you have seen.

That is who I see, as you sit
there, unattended, causing
mischief in your adolescent mind.
This isn’t a choice.
This is who you are.

I drink gallon of visions—through
the crystal glasses hanging
in front of me….

You appear more real through
distorted glass.


The problem is this:
not knowing what YOU will
be tomorrow.

How you will say my name
at the other end of the line.
The tones and balances,
why I can tell you are
looking at your feet
and how I can intertwine
right and left and
up and down
without dizziness, nausea.
Slowing closing eyes.

The problem is not:
how your hand felt on my hip,
Like heat,
Like coals.


One of those days,
your skin felt like plastic.
saran wrapped.
nothing allowed to penetrate.
not your sulfur lines,
copper breath.


Your face, bleeding comfort,
pausing for a moment
to rethink your already
scanned over fragments.
is exhausting.


They come at you like a
swarm of flies. A black
floating amoeba taking
shape after shape.
picking so delicately
at your skin, that
together you feel
as though muscle is

Bone glistening in the sun.


There comes a time when
the thin pink bubble around
you becomes so think,
that the world is for a
moment supple and warm
and all you see is circular,
inviting you to roll
the curvatures of your body
over all that exists.


There was nothing but a pale
dirt road for eternal lengths
in front or behind of your
dad’s old station wagon—
white as the 70’s bounced
as gravel spun out under
the weight of the tires.

These were the only
moments we had—saved for
heavey breathing and
white knuckle pawing.
you—slick in the sharp
blue light sneaking through
the back window.
You—soft and lingering in
this makeshift penthouse.

I have known you in the breath
of touch so many times.
this inhale always tastes new.
exhale sheds nothing.


These legs of glass—
hot blown,
red flame just
ascending off the surface.
still bendable.
still shapeable.


You are the colors
that are found miles
outside the sun.
Sugar orange and almond.
Your movements are
charged with the power
of stars…
crescent moons.
You are orbit surrounding
vast molecular structures.


Salt cracks in crevasses,
on arms,
between thighs,
like the class cane
used to progress my
It all crumbles,
disintegrates with water,
with saline.
rivers shed away surfaces,
but the dry lingers
on the top of my tongue.
teeth brittle and black,
sink into new skin,
your skin in which
oceans are foreign—
Iodine stains wash clear
one word of pure
bleached out rain.


Once the sun came up—
sleep was stolen.
the room remained dark,
but the knowledge of light
was a demon successor.

Your face rested on my
upturned forearm,
and the reaction was eyelids
open. Dry and unfocused.

Wanting to touch because
of the ease of access.

A warm body—
unfamiliar, yet there.
under same sheets.
in and out of consciousness.

Waking up next to you was
stranger than drifting to
sleep by your side,
only hours ago.


Categories: Poetry

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