Human All Too Waitress
While we may all wear uniforms,
mine is perhaps of the most uniformed.
I’m outfitted in irony, emoting robot dialect—
I’m a frail child wrapped up in an unbound straightjacket,
painted with stained blue jeans,
anchored to works shoes, with molded crannies,
tightened by a necktie, a man’s nightmare, a woman’s stranger.
I’m an odd representation of the normative,
but I’m not normal.
I am very not normal, as I stand beside you,
maybe spilling your glass, maybe stumbling over my words.
I have seen my own face several times on other bodies:
the ones who pour me a glass
and pray, with fingers crossed:
maybe I’ll be the one to understand
the plight of the hopeless entrepreneur.
I’ll remember the out-of-body experience—
every time I breathe in.
Remembering—it’s not over yet, but maybe this will be the last time:
My name is Leah and I’ll be your server.