First Waitress Poem by Donal Mahoney
First Waitress
Outside, the still
of crickets.
Inside, petals
of a cold sore
foliate,
a boutonniere
for full lips.
Looking up, I tell her
two eggs, basted,
hash browns,
coffee now.
Later on,
she says
the birthmark
I found
south of her navel
she’s had
all her life.
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4/25/2024 4:59:57 AM # 1.0.0.1119
