Ode To the Women On Brown St

i want to write a poem for the women on brown street, 
the ones who work at the diner i go to every sunday with my parents,
the ones who keep the dulled butter knives hidden up their sleeves and the cans of mace hidden in their aprons. 
i want to write a poem for the women making minimum wage like they drew the short end of the stick,
like they’re trapped in a cycle filled with nothing but cracked plates and wandering hands. 

the women on brown street know that the customer is always right, but i’ve found them
wondering when they’ll get their turn. 
after all, how can the customer be wrong when you just moved the wrong way, darlin’. 
how can the customer be wrong when they leave a hearty tip and a vulgar message on the receipt? 
how can the customer be wrong when they’ve never been given a chance to be proven right? 

the women at the diner on the corner of brown street and an avenue where nothing bad ever happens keep their purses clutched so close to them they become a second skin when they walk to their cars at night, to their bus stops, to their train stations. 
these women mold themselves into their bags because that’s where safety lies, hidden in 
the can of mace or the switchblade they felt too silly to order online but can’t help finding useful more times than should be normal -
more times than they can count. 

i want to write a poem about the women at the rinky diner because they are the unsung heroes,
folding their capes down to fit around their waists, 
snug enough that the regular at table eight can’t force his sticky fingers under there again,
tight enough that he feels the safety click and the thump thump thump of their hearts falling into their stomachs when someone gets too close, 
when someone forgets that the hunted can flip the script in a split second. 

i want to write this poem for debra and connie and margerie and erica, who greet every guest with a watery smile and a tightened grip around the coffee pot, 
because lately, filling the coffee cup up to the brim never gets past half-full.

on the corner of brown street and an avenue where nothing like this ever happens, 
they call it half-empty. 


- on the corner of brown street and twenty broken avenues

Copyright © Michele Sherman | Year Posted 2021

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