Human All Too Waitress (A Poem, Again)

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.

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