Poem Composed on the Back of an Applebee’s Receipt
You hand me my apple
pie and say “Sweets for
the sweet” and I
know that you are
wrong: night after
night on the job and
just a poem for a tip,
making your rounds
with water in aprons of
silk and soot and
other sharp things,
and what is this—
this thing we have?
“Is it more than
chicken finger love,”
you ask yourself
as plates crash beneath
you, tears filling
your Applebee heart.
pie and say “Sweets for
the sweet” and I
know that you are
wrong: night after
night on the job and
just a poem for a tip,
making your rounds
with water in aprons of
silk and soot and
other sharp things,
and what is this—
this thing we have?
“Is it more than
chicken finger love,”
you ask yourself
as plates crash beneath
you, tears filling
your Applebee heart.
