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Diary    H4'ed 2/25/18

If My Country Were a Waitress, We Might All Be Fed (a poem of sorts)

Author 56818
Message b. sadie bailey

Morning truckstop waitress snaps her gum, says,

"Hon, whatcha havin'?"; her stocking run

glued with clear nail polish,

her sturdy legs pegged

in scuffed oxfords, old gum stuck

to older soles.

Her even older soul

smiles through tired eyes.

She's seen everything about humanity;

world reflected in a dewdrop.

------

A lifetime of carrying loads -

she's used to it;

arms encircle tray wide enough

to hold

the whole world's troubles

and plenty of food,

as she pours your coffee

black

no sugar;

strong

the way you need it.

 

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b. sadie bailey Social Media Pages: Facebook page url on login Profile not filled in       Twitter page url on login Profile not filled in       Linkedin page url on login Profile not filled in       Instagram page url on login Profile not filled in

I am a low-to-no-income person getting-older. I work (when i have work) as a seasonal gardener. I'm tired of seeing America eroded by corporate neo- fascists, and tired of watching the gift of life on this miraculous planet be exploited and (more...)
 

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