section

Section
by Jeremy Gottwig

Your section's a mess, yells that
blathering oaf of a blustering man.
Her manager, I suppose, but I've
never bothered to ask.  I figure he sits in back,
counts his cash, likely screams
at his wife
on the phone.  Reappears
when profits
down.  I don't know (don't care)
about this guy, but of her,
that waitress,
that glorious case of lovely leg, of skin
gone red with shame, hot plates, and moving from table to table to table,
of taupe uniform flecked with stains,
of her, the cafe is enamored: all us
denizens gone silent with rubberneck-rage,
especially us creatures sitting in her section: a mess,
all of us: walled off by some computerized map of tables:
her section of lepers: we messy few that can't help
but leave behind scraps of skin and crumpled napkins, even as she
mothers us for an hour or more.  But we can't help
ourselves: the single father of three; the inebriated quad of
college freshmen; the hipster couple subduing their toddler.
And me: alone, unemployed, her ride home,
ready for her 2am shift to come to a close.

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