WHILE AT FRISCH’S FOR A TUNA MELT
WHILE AT FRISCH’S FOR A TUNA MELT
The servers skitter about the tables
while ladies with leaning towers of hair
led by men with wishbone legs
dodder to the salad bar, hang their canes
around their wrist while dishing out some cole slaw.
My waitress tells the table next to me
that she has cancer,
must have a length of her esophagus removed.
Somehow, this leads into a narrative
of how her earlobe is split because her youngest
pulled an earring through it. Now, she uses Crazy Glue
to close the slit and wear her diamond studs.
On her face, I notice acne scars, healed
but always open-like the counter
at this the watering hole
for those of us who gimp
through life, drop a limb
and just reach down, pick it up,
twine and paste ourselves together
to make it to dessert.
This poem first appeared in New Southerner Magazine.