The Waiter

By now, after so many years, I know
Everything there is to know about it.
I serve with grace, foreseeing customer needs,
Like that man over there, chuckling at his friend’s joke:
He hasn’t touched his water all night,
But he’s going to need a refill
In a moment I am behind him with the dripping pitcher
Before he puts his empty glass on the table.

I catch the glance of an older woman, well-practiced in the art
Of marriage, only slightly less so in the art of divorce,
Her lipsticked mouth a cracked canyon of red and
Eyes that stare from dark caverns of skin.
I nod to her and head to the bar, scratching her order
With the pencil I keep behind my ear.

I am next to you, grazing your black sleeve of silk,
Peering into the blond web of hair at the curve of your neck.
I take my pencil from behind my ear,
Put it back, take it out again,
Watching you without staring–a trick I have learned–
While you lift your glass to your smile
And the white wine, the wine, the wine--

The annoyed bartender fills my order,
And I take the glass to the marriage expert,
Replacing with a slender glass of chardonnay
Her half-filled highball.

-M.Fabrizi