Friday, November 16, 2012

Poetry. Waitress.

Red wine smeared across my hand,
Polite beckoning as I stand.

Gentle murmur of diners
And shouts of cheerful minors.

Cutlery and clink
A smile and a wink

A pad scrawled with pen
Inked with orders
From who knows when.

Coffee grinds
A meeting of minds

Running the pass
Wine poured into a glass

Crema and froth
Table wiping cloth

Scent of napoli
Smiling happily

Extra socks
Pizza box

Latte glass
Serving class

Menus and trays
With chips made of maize
...and potato as well.

Dessert menu
For the ideal venue

Up and sell
If my name isn't...

No comments:

Post a Comment