For the Waitress  

She brought a menu
& took my drink order.
Often, a poet will see
the different truth
in things.  

At the moment she brings
my beer to the booth,
her smile owns me.
No border
separates us. The venue  

becomes the place
where poetry, the only
answer, alone, could
capture the light,
reflecting from her eyes.  

Her silence, her guise,
bespoke a write
me, paint me as you should
& my lonely
emotions race  

after her. She returns
to the kitchen
& peeps around the door,
taking a long time,
to measure me  

before she
takes off her apron, rhyme
falling to the floor,
which in
retrospect, burns  

her disappearance into memory
which I recreate in words
upon a recycled paper napkin.