My Vegetarian Restaurant

I wanna be a waitress

And complain about needing more hours

And wanting more shifts

I wanna wear an apron and picket lots of pens

That I stole for empty tables

I wanna wear my hair in a bun

And complain of the heat

I wanna pretend to be writing people’s orders

And really be taking notes of people who I think’d made characters

Who I can copy and add to, in the brink of a story arc

I’d wear a big ring with a stone square and turquoise

and I’d pretend that I was from Arizona

I’d wear clogs and practice out a southern accent

And say that chamomile tasted better than Lipton in styrofoam

I’d put lots of lemons in my water and walk around with plastic cups full of it

Like the kind they serve around at Pizza Hut

I’d complain about field greens, and about how they are hard to harvest

And comment on the apples I got last week and how nothing can make you feel unguilty about eating cheese

I’d think about the drills I used to write , and how I finagled over copies

How I ran through textbooks and would come back tired and do more yoga

How I’d try to do everything- tests, Bloom’s, fables, phrases

And wash up what I grew to seniors and freshman graffiti-ied desks

I’d show up at readings thinking of when my computer seemed

Always out of battery, when I’d read other people’s poems outloud in my bedroom

Had turned off all electronics for the sound of Mary Oliver’s voice to “Journey” in Dream Works

And had thought about how to fit all my thoughts in a poem onto one page

But come up short…

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