I’m starting to use words
like sweetheart and
darlin’
and the woman at the counter
puts some scrambled eggs in front
of me, calls me sweetie
The workers stack the Texas
toast, scoop the grits
scribble down orders and
take our dirty plates
I sit and sip and
scribble in a notepad and
think of back home–San Francisco
I think of Mr. Chandler, my
homeroom teacher who’d tell us
tales that many didn’t understand
Tales of men who ate
steel, bit into iron as if it
were an onion or hunk of black
rye bread
For real? we’d ask
Mr. Chandler
And he’d roll his eyes
look at us and say,
“No, for fake”
And we all graduated (Some)
and got into a world of fake
flowers searching for the
real ones
But one thing is real, as I scribble
amidst the frying and clinking of
plates
These workers stacking the
plates, scooping the grits, tossing
the eggs on the porcelain as if it
were the sun itself
“Drop 2 hashbrowns, Texas Toast
and an extra order of sausage!”
These workers,
real flowers
(c) 2023 Tony Robles
