Waitress

A billow of warm air sweeps past.

I step through the door,

the cold morning slammed out behind me.

Wafts of coffee and dish soap.

I tie a bow around my waist

like a leash,

slip a pen into my back pocket.

The sloshing of the dish washer.

I grab the handle,

push it down.

My arm is tense.

Patches of light, dappled about,

waltz across the floor,

changing shape with the step of every greasy shoe.

Faces come and go,

both pulled and sagged,

masked,

like icing on a cake,

covering the rough edges.

Charlotte Hinds