The waitress didn’t look that old to me
but I was using eyes no longer young,
and as she talked of her large family
her years derived their number from her tongue.
Her thinning hair was process-toned and -curled.
Her nose imported power from her chin.
Besides her job, her church described her world
with magazines of faithful origin.
Her voice was rough; her form implied in bones
that she had smoked too long and drank too much.
She gave the children breakfast ice cream cones
and spoke of prayer in circles, and God’s touch.
She wasn’t bright or smart or self-assured.
The hands she served us with were manicured.