Waiting tables for the week

Am I just my blistered feet?

This town is a stretch—

silver row of bars—

and bars—

_ and_ _bars_—

I can’t wait to leave.

I get drunk

on the clink from the tip jar

but I’ll never see my dreams stretch far—

not if I stay here.

One day I’ll be found.

Mama, just wait ‘till I’m on the stage,

singing unbound.

But I keep to my tables.

Watch as their jeers and mocks pass by—

now faded echoes that serve as lies—

no more purpose than my doubting mind.

When life finds me,

my heart will feel right.

Just wait.