Runny yellow yoke already dried
littered with cigarette ashes that hover like flies, and are made alive
by the breeze of the closing door, thick white creamer dripping
from the crumpled thin-plastic container on the floor by a greasy fork.
at the table still writing down the list of pork
products that the man at fifteen, a real complainer,
ordered as sides to his steak
and eggs, and I find one greenback balding president –
George Washington smirking,
staring from the table like he would have never worked this job
when he was three dimensional and able.
I put the bill in my pocket
just so I don’t have to look at his face, and I say to the plate, “I don’t need
your lousy dollar,” and I go to the wheel,
and I stab the new ticket, “Order in,”
and I pick up more plates of hot breakfast,
and I smile when I deliver them.