The waiter
has a soft pout
of belly
above his cummerbund,
>he takes my order as if
committing an act of treachery,
finally
>returns with the dish –
“Cacciatore”, he menaces
and plonks it down
leaving me to eat disdain
with the wonderful meal.
Oh well,
the chicken is a gift of God
and fellowship
a fickle grace …

still,
I have to watch him –
we are intimates through
his censure,
he moves to the roadway
leans on a car
and ignites cigarettes
like bright, defiant flags
of his dominion.
He will be back shortly
to chastise me with the bill.

BIO BIO BIO