By Michael Lauchlan
When you stop at the usual place
you greet a waitress who’s been off
for a while. She looks older somehow.
You ask how it’s going, then
touch your glass and watch
the condensation stream away
from your fingerprints. She says
she had a stroke last month
while taking a breakfast order and
had to cut her hours. The insurance
screwed her and her old man’s
been drinking since the bastards
laid him off. She refills your coffee.
Donna’ll get your order, honey.
I can’t keep it straight.