Nightshift as a Waitress: When the Regular Arrives

Sweet thing, I’ve strapped

my hands to flags

to wave you over

and my thighs are so pale

and free. I sucked on twenty

lemons to pucker

my mouth shut, yet I’ll whistle

you the proper

order: powdered

sugar on the flapjacks,

coffee that kicks like a bull

without some salt.

You don’t need

to know about my half-

wants, or how the neon

Open sign sparks and chars

the hair on my wrists.

All you know is

I look like milk in the dark,

and you have minutes left

to get me to wail the best blues

of our weekly undoing.