Richard Luftig

A READER

She'll come on at 11,
blonde hair tied back tight
still damp against the morning,
white polyester apron
not yet stained by catsup
and yesterday's chilli.
In one pocket a pad
for her Haiku of orders,
blank verse flush left
on small pages; in the other
a place for dimes and quarters
that big tippers leave face
down in pools of spilled coffee.

And tucked with her tips
one short poem about home
that made her cry, the one
she copied last night
from an orphan book bought
with tip change from the guy
who comes in at noon
and fancies himself a poet;
the book shelf made of boards
and old bricks, a poem
that made her feel something
she seems to remember
but cannot recall.

Tonight, she'll get off at 10,
go home to change, read, cry
then drive twenty miles
in her brown beater 
of a Buick to listen
to a jukebox give poetry
readings and wait in the hope
of one long, slow dance.