How I met Josie
I met Josie at the Black Cow
a watering hole for singles
pair of jade Green Earrings
adorned her ears
and drew my eye
we talked about our pasts
spent time Reelin’ In the Years
found out she had gone to Bard College
which was My Old School and
we enjoyed a Time Out of Mind
we watched the Baylon Sisters
sing Pretzel Logic, when they were done
the crowd shouted Do It Again
all waitresses were assigned a number, ours was nineteen
whenever we needed more drinks we yelled
Hey Nineteen!
she avoids crowds
too many feelings
chaos and dissention
She does better with positivity
Negativity takes her strength
Zaps her energy
Throws her into a terrified state
She does not frequent stadiums, carnivals or festivals
Waitresses stay and talk
Telling her their life stories
As her annoyed family shoots mean looks
Which the waitress usually does not notice
Strangers on the street love her attention
She tries to not make eye contact
Some follow her home
It is rare to find an empath and everyone wants one
There is no need to apologize for the things you mistakenly forget to do
What type of person would I be to make a mockery of patience and virtue?
You did right with direct condolences, which most would seldom bother to do
A smile means more than a fork and spoon; the steak needed the rest in my humblest of view
Feelings of appreciation are my hope for the rest of your evening after reading this; my gratitude is for all that you do
Let the laborers rest,
like poetry, the rhyme is in their job,
as they hammer the nails,
and man the railroads,
maids clean someone else's toilets,
others fell giant trees,
as the waitresses twirl like a ballerina
balancing plates amid the din of a
crowded diner,
migrant farmworkers bend in the
savage sun's glare to pick the produce.
Let the laborers rest,
their aching bodies in sleep's bliss,
like poetry, the rhyme is in their job,
it pumps their hearts and blood,
the rhythm of the workers of the world.
A fellow laborer of my brother,
was dying of lung cancer,
he toiled up to four days before he died.
God let this laborer rest,
and He closed His servant's eyes. ~
he entered the room as if rice was about to boil over,
seeing faces of those he didn't recognise look as though
they were reading the last line of a book they never read
before, staggered, asymmetrically pensive in times during
coffee servings and bites from donuts, but, given that it
was only midday, the flavour of the waitresses grumbled
in overlapping office lunch hours. little did our hero, who
entered with arched cat-back whiteness, know, his un-
expected audience, delivering blank verse in motor-
cycle and side-car loads, were systematically only there
to make up the numbers, merely propping up the inward
burst of off the street heart attacks, the last hope of ever
thwarted reasoning and too the waitresses were cardboard.
I'd like to step back in time a bit
And mention the dinosaur.
He lived two hundred million years
And then was seen no more.
The dino's demise is a mystery
That's hashed and often rehashed here.
One fav'rite hypothesis seems to be
That a giant asteroid crashed here.
Argued by clerics, and scientists,
And other great men of distinction,
Some clearly deluded,
Yet none has concluded
What actually caused the extinction.
What really occurred
Lies somewhere obscured
Amongst all those theories and guesses.
Some still do remain, though,
Like the crane and komodo,
And a number of interstate truck-stop waitresses.
I am a listener
My eyes say “tell me”
And people do
Waitresses ask me to scoot over
I have never seen them before
They tell me their life story
Strangers and I converse
in grocery stores, on airplanes, at funerals and weddings
I listen with my heart
And I do not offer advice
I merely listen
It is enough
I often hug a new “person’ goodbye
And they cling to me
I am their listener for the day
And it makes a difference
Hang a left, clunker rocking
on sprung shocks.
Inside,
narrows taper to booths.
The place is slow-time empty.
The staff talk is griddle speech,
a blow by blow banter,
middle finger smarts mixed with
vowels of regrets.
From the lips of waitresses
the clipped history
of shaky affairs
and dead-loss dudes.
False gods named,
Tod, Ricky, and Wayne
a bruised chatter -
ankle-swelling narrations
that break apart unfulfilled.
Food arrives with a woman,
dimples nap in work-weary cheeks.
Her necklace is ink,
yet it hangs over glancing eyes
as a low-cut caress.
She knows I’ve been listening,
yet continues unabashed
a colloquy with my senses.
reciting by rote a silent
'tip-me-big' love spell.
I was not the party, but I was the listener at the party
Steady streams of people sat to tell their stories
Not only at parties, but on street corners and buses.
I was a pied piper, drawing them in.
It was not my initial plan, but it happened.
Waitresses told me to scoot over.
They sat in our booth and told me all about it.
It used to drive my husband and children nuts.
I was not aiming to become a pied piper.
It happened gradually; animals sought me out also.
Not only dogs, cats and birds, but raccoons and opossums.
I have those hazel eyes that say “I care”.
I don’t mean to lure everything to me,
But they gravitate to me and tell me their stories.
I wait until they leave to write them down
Into poems and songs.
Time and chance happened
to me
Opportunity came knocking
Canadian visa on my green passport
grabbed with both arms
Montreal, Ottawa here
I come
KLM, Air France, Amsterdam, Montreal
cities so surreal
Dreams and imagination becoming
so real
Waiters and waitresses
wait on me
Dreamy and misty but so real
Race and colour irrelevant
All wait on me
Living my dreams
Ottawa with love
Visa on my green Nigerian passport
The truth is that people think I am the best listener in the world.
I have mastered the face and the expressions of the most interested.
I can toss out the best impression of a person who cares.
I am doing it correctly, for waitresses sit down and tell me their story.
I scoot over for waiters, hairdressers and bartenders too.
A few well placed “hms”, “wows” and “oh, mys" make me fast friends.
Most are self-involved, care not if they learn anything about me.
They want my deeply empathetic hazel eyes to pull out their truths.
I am an actress, playing a role, giving them what they need.
Wondering why they are too selfish to ask me anything about me.
I am the world’s most notorious imposter of a listener.
Many times I am on autopilot, not hearing a word they say.
Sadly, they hug me goodbye and tell me how much it means to them.
Valentine’s day supper
Village restaurant booked
Vexed diners! We wait for
Venison steak meals but
Violins screeched out six
Viennese waltzes, the
Very drunk chef is sacked!
This is based on a true experience, with some poetic licence it was my birthday not Valentine day and we were having beef steak not Venison. My husband ordered a starter and main whilst I’d opted a beef main course and dessert. The starter arrived, then we waited and waited but there was no sign of the main course. We asked when the meals would arrive and were told there was a ‘problem in the kitchen’. Then the 2 young waitresses got out violins and tried to entertain us. About an hour later we were given badly cooked meals then offered free desserts which we declined as we just wanted to leave. We later discovered the chef had been very drunk and got sacked and the owner had tried their best to cook the meals. The fact the waitresses had the violins made me suspect it wasn't the first time there had been issues with the chef. Not long afterwards the restaurant closed down.
Pleiades V Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Kim Merryman
05/06/21
Waitresses are the only people
Who are nice to the uncongenial
You know the ones
From the city slums
These a-holes think they're so superior
Ka’mayia gives off the air of
Well giving off an air
Self-confidence personified,
in the form of a gorgeous caramel body
Her skin flashes with beauty,
but those eyes, oh, my, those eyes.
They are chocolate all-knowing orbs.
She has the knowledge of the masters.
Ka’mayia is an empath, so sensitive
that she has had to build walls, so shut out the hurt ones
For when they hurt, she hurts, but more painfully so.
She has love for everyone, and can feel their pain.
I note that her latest hair style reflects Medusa,
a great idea, she thought, hoping to keep strangers away.
It does not work. People are drawn to this beautiful African queen.
They tell her of their woes, their worries, their life.
She cannot go to a restaurant without pulling the entire back story
out of the waitresses, and the bartender.
And he is trained to listen! But not when she looks into his eyes.
She is an empath, and walls do not work for her. She cares too much.
Waitresses are the only people
Who are nice to the uncongenial
You know the ones
From the city slums
Who think they're extremely superior
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