Lynn
I don’t know if the waitress suffers flatulence,
if her bra-straps pinch beneath her armpits;
if she and her boyfriend live in separate apartments,
if his Honda’s strewn all over hers in bits.
I know little about her but her freckled hands,
the cracked red varnish on her bitten nails,
the hole in her tights as she stretches to draw the blinds;
that’s she’s East End, takes my order with estuary vowels.
She’s pleasant and busy squeezing between the tables,
fetching and carrying plates of bacon and eggs,
steel pots of scalding tea, cracking up locals
old enough to be her grandpa for admiring her legs;
and cheeking the younger guys, who’re often in,
who try to give her a cuddle, call her Lynn.
Page(s) 7
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