The Piccadilly

Our waitress runs

With pitchers and hot plates, her rush syncopated

With two-puff smoking breaks,

Then it’s back to pick up orders—

The metal wheel spins

In the rectangular window. Cooks harry the grill,

Their paper hats dance in place,

As they lather the bread with butter.

Grease smudges hands, plates, napkins, table tops; the food

Tastes good. I don’t think about anything outside

The orbit of my plate, the mound of sweet ketchup and my mother—

She let me have her fries.

After, I peer under the antique cash register,

Into the cabinet of candy bars, packs of gum, and cartons of cigarettes,

Relics from a bygone world. My mother

Gives me a dollar. Grease on my mouth,

I stuff chocolate inside.

CRA

11/19/2006

8/26/2007