Steam rose from a silver crescent hood
sterilizing white plates and swallowing cutlery.
The goose-necked fountain honked
and caged canaries sang. Hair-netted,
I crated and emptied, crated and emptied
then nickle-and-dimed BLTs:
one strip broken into four bits,
a tomato slither, a pinch of mayo,
lettuce laid on rye toast dipped in
grease served with coffee, cherry Coke,
or an egg cream to my boss, Mr. D’Amboise,
whom we dubbed Fang, leering from the edge
of the counter, and to neighborhood
shoppers who gossiped and left small tips.

I loved the small talk, the girls’ scarfed hair
set in bobby-pin grids of perfect X’s,
the teenage boys swiping
dog chains, the ache in my lower back,
the mustard-clogged funnels, loved
even my father who tipped
his tweed cap after eats,Twas grand, he’d say
then stiffed me as he spun from his red leather stool. 

© by Liz Dolan.
Used with the author’s permission.