The Waitress

I work in a restaurant.

I wait tables.

It doesn’t pay enough,

But it pays, and it keeps dinner on the table

Most of the time.

 

I can’t remember a time when

I never had to worry.

I mean, there was a time when my husband made a living,

At least enough to support our children.

But that was once.

Lately, he really only lives to support himself,

And the only thing that he continues to feed

Is his addiction.

 

There’s something about playing second-best

To a pill-pushing psychiatrist that keeps you uneasy,

 

So I set him free, let the love of my life

Run off with his bride to be,

To live under the influence of narcotics

‘Til death do them part.

 

I like to look at it this way:

That’s one less child to support.

 

So here I am at 4:45 every morning,

Drowning myself in coffee,

Filling the air of my trailer with cigarette smoke.

I’ve never been late to work a day in my life,

But I still see the kids off to school every morning.

I kiss their cheeks as we exchange “I love you.”

I still find trouble in believing them.

It’s difficult to imagine another person loving you

when you can't find reasons to love yourself.

 

There’s little to look forward to

In my morning commute to the island.

But I do find pleasure in the sight of the bay

From the foot of the bridge

The mist of the morning air

Lightens the May haze and

Dispels the anxiety of my heavy mind.

 

But let’s face it:

Work sucks.

And while I spend my week

Appeasing ornery elderly couples and

Picking up dirtied plates of soggy French toast

From tables covered in ripped linen cloths,

I’m always overwhelmed by the sight of

A five-dollar bill.

 

There’s something about tattered one-dollar bills

And the obvious pocket change that

Breeds doubt,

Questions why this 43-year-old woman works

A summer job across four seasons.

 

I ask myself the same questions.

 

For once, I wish that someone would

Leave me with something other than stray coins,

Something useful written on a used napkin

Or the business card of a failing carpenter

Assuring me that

“You could do better, Donna,

You don’t deserve to be broken down like this.”

 

You see, this is the kind of advice that I would take to heart,

Because when I crumple it in my hand and toss it to the side,

I find comfort in knowing that you’re looking out of me;

There is nothing more gratifying than absorbing

The respect that I deserve because

I don’t deserve to fight my battles in bills

Or to be a war with my wages.

 

And while my trailer park home

Doesn’t amount to the three-floored glory

Of your Margate mansion,

I have stories of my own,

The type of s**t that’ll make you

March back through that restaurant door

And slap that crisp five-dollar bill

Right into my hand.

 

And it will mean nothing.

 

I don’t want your sympathy cards.

I don’t need your pity pennies.

Regardless of how you see me,

I will be on time to pour your coffee

Every morning of

Every day of

Every week

For the simple satisfaction

Of having you watch me do it.

Whether you stiff me or not,

I will not waver.

 

I’m just trying to prove to you

That there’s no reason that

I should be doing this.

 

So I’m doing it.

Reviews

[zainul]

Lovely piece.
How you described the role of a woman in such details?
I adore your investigative and realistic work.

[Hayley]

Just as impressive. I like how you can take one idea and you expand upon it in the best possible way, give the reader the most expansive insight, yet expanding upon it in a way that is so uniquely contradictory, like the last 4 lines.
The only suggestion I have is to make sure (with a poem in this length) that it doesn't sound like one run-on sentence. This poem does a better job show-casing the needed breaks.
I thoroughly enjoyed this piece; keep writing!