Intolerance

She greets us with loud and American brightness Gives us the menu with florid politeness Has cheerfulness written all over her face But just hasn’t quite got the tone of the place We only went in there to grab a quick brunch But seemingly we have a threesome for lunch As she spoons out her unsubtle dollops of chatter Outlining the options for every platter So much information, and so much to say About this, about that, about soup of the day Every tale of the menu she’s tempted to tell Bless her, she’s on it, and on us as well He raises an eyebrow, and I raise one back An unspoken agreement to cut her some slack Till she asks us what we are intolerant to At which point he coughs, and I go to the loo She’s nice, oh she’s nice enough, don’t get me wrong We’re just dreading the moment she bursts in to song If we want a McDonalds we’ll bear her in mind But we came here for something profound, and refined Alfafa and silence, and spiced meditation Weird stuff on salad, profound conversation To gaze from the window, like, mournful and arty Invisible guests at a well tasteful party Instead there is her, with her zest and her zing Motivating our order with… “Let’s do this thing!” by Gail