Tip
Waiters don't wear cologne
It interferes with the food
he knows, he's served them all
My friend in fine dining, white cloth restaurants
tony men as silk suits, stuffy ladies as decolletage,
demands they make
the ranking jewellery behind crystal glass
he tells me, who are the ones who serve well
the dip of the hand, the bow at the waist, plates dropped softly
I admire these waiters, their lives in constant toil
But I can never be one, too much resentment are my bones