Mad Waitress

It was a shit shift.

You served a salmon roll

to someone allergic.

Sat with simultaneous eight-tops,

you cursed your lack of an addy. The boss

poked a chopstick into your cheek: smile,

you look like a bitch. You’re not the nicest

waitress, your name pops up

in more than a few one-star reviews.

Amazing how pissy people are

when you tell them nobody gets refilled

for free. Leaving, you’re eaten

by an old hole. Craving a new one,

you drive to the piercing studio,

which is closed. Inside, a girl mops up

before she locks up; the shred

of her, fluorescent-lit. Whither

will you speed next, mad waitress,

who spent your break ten screaming

in the walk-in? To feel your self

needs a scant teaspoon of pain, soul

thrown back in your face; for example,

the cook likes his nipples twisted.

He often says this to your chest.