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Salad
We are at a pizza parlor.
We are approached but not recognized.
We are regulars.
The waiter asks:
"Can I take your order please?"
He looks at me, I say
"Salad."
He turns to my friend, she says
"Salad."
Every time it is the same.
The same man. The same question.
The same answer.
"Salad."
He comes back with our drinks.
He remembers this.
We empty our pockets of quarters
into the jukebox. So happy, we are.
We eat
"salad."
By the forkful.
By the plateful.
The only profit the waiter makes
is from our Tab refills.
Teenage girls
drink a lot of Tab.
Meloo/Melissa A Howells site: Tilt-a-World
from a recent prompted childhood memory
All stories, ideas and poetry are the legal property of this Author
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