on waitressing

I like the ritualistic restaurant;
The oddballs and miserable bastards
Whose order remains forever the same,
Week on week.

But to distribute
A basket full of steak knives
Still breaks my serving heart,
And plate upon plate of lasagne, seems cruel to the crab.

Drab life, they disregard, skimming specials vaguely,
But for me a certain satisfaction is found
In making round, circular movements
To polish glass -

Sticky and no longer see through
With over-fed fingers,
Betraying the greasy film of dining
And wining, week on week.

And I like to see those thick swirls
On the top
Of a good cup of coffee,
Served with a biscuit, a smile and drunk in unhurried time.

I love the lessons learned like selfish pearls,
The tiny, beautiful moments
Of altruism(?) and
The happiness of others:

Heavenly monkfish
In a huge and deep-set dish,
With chorizo, basil and cherry tomatoes,
Followed by
A hot, strong Irish coffee
And a cake, devilishly sweet and
Doused in cream.