Waiting Tables

Waiting, what does it mean?
I run from the beginning to the end
of the building several times.
My favorite place is the kitchen.
Not that we are aloud to eat…
I pick cilantro, cut lemons, fold napkins.
As soon as they arrive I greet with a smile.
Go back, pick up drinks.
Get some bread and some sauce.
God forbid if I don’t…
Run again for sugar, salt, or samples.
Take an order, talk for a while.
Answer all the questions
that I’ve answered a thousand times.
Clean up and bring the check.
I repeat the process
1, 2, 3, 10, 12 times a day.
Every once in a while there is a shitty tipper.
We regretfully learn who to judge
and we make awful stereotypes.
The old sweet ladies that we loved to help
And sometimes felt sorry for their late years
Become a member of the black list.
The college students, such as ourselves.
Along with the parents with young kids
that don’t pay for the mess they make
are included too.
At the top, are the ice tea drinkers.
But it has its rewards.
A dollar over 20%.
A note on the credit card slip.
A smile, a complement.
A personal question,
a good recommendation.
Free dinner on the house.
An expensive bottle of wine.
It’s a tirering work
And it doesn’t mean anything.
At least–
Not a whole lot of waiting.