by Heather Bonea
She shadowed the black apron.
I watched contempt simmer
behind a facade of duty.
I need this job.
The tips are good.
But these shoes are killing me.
She’ll last a month,
Maybe two.
The grey beards behind
their glasses will
mark her round ass and
swirl their wine.
Her feet shuffle under
narrow hips and a
bulging waistline while
she bats her eyelashes at
the couple occupying
Table Three.
I can see behind her mask.
Terse lips.
Small pride.
But a roar that
whispers in the wings,
waits for the spotlight to drop,
and runs.
Heather Bonea is a poet, painter and photographer in Chico, CA. Her poems have been previously published in the online publication, Califragile, as well as the Chico News and Review. Stella Bellow is an illustrator currently attending Parsons School of Design in New York City.
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