Donal Mahoney Poet Blank verse

First Waitress

Outside, the still 
of crickets.
Inside, petals
of a cold sore 
foliate,
a boutonniere 
for full lips.
Looking up, I tell her 
two eggs, basted, 
hash browns,
coffee now.
Later on, 
she says
the birthmark
I found 
south of her navel 
she’s had 
all her life.


Donal Mahoney

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