Ankles, prop me up
when I’ve already given up,
when a complaint breaks
any sincerity- and nobody applauds
like when the bartender, tired 
and bruised under her bra,
drops a wine glass. 
When the last table
shows no signs of hurry.
When the ones won’t
add up. When they tell
me to have a nice day 
and that I’m going to hell 
if I don’t believe what they believe,
and that the steak was tough.
I know better, ankles,
than to let any of this bug me up here,
I will take it like the dishwasher
takes a murky splash to his face,
without flinching. 
I won’t add misery, ankles, 
so long as you keep me upright.