The Waiters

The Waiters

They work with an air of dejected aptitude
In the early morning
And Late into the night
When their charges have yet to arrive
And after they have departed.

You become the house special
The concocted confection
The bottom line rests on your shoulders
Below the line is your enjoyment
And a sense of quiet satisfaction.

That you are good at that which
You have no wish to pursue
You fight for that mark of recognition
That seems to some so vague
And unimportant in their lives.

The Waiters work hard
Chasing that gratuitous marker
Of a job well performed
Of a service satisfactorily rendered
Those alms thrown at them like so much dirt.

Come here to escape from life
Where everything is not perfect
Why do you think the Waiter
Is just waiting to kick you in the teeth?
Waiting to forget that all-important lemon?

This is not real life.
Nobody cleans your mess
In the real world.
Pretend you’re a millionaire
And we will too.

Do unto others, unless they are Waiters
Become the Israelites
Waiters wear colors of the Moabites
Ten to the Lord, ten to the Waiter
You Sunday Damned.

A community for Waiters
Where rent is paid in compliments
And your escape from life
And smiling empty gratitudes
Make this worth your attitude.

Strange greetings and assurance of health
Not well, or good, but iced tea
Quick, he might be doing his job -
Interrupt. My name is not important
I only want to give you... everything we have.

The joy that might be in this game
Of feeding people delight
And cleaning up their sorrows
Is destroyed by the line
That society toes with feet so weighted.