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

By       Message b. sadie bailey     Permalink    (# of views)   2 comments

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View Ratings | Rate It Headlined to H4 2/25/18

Author 56818
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Morning truckstop waitress snaps her gum, says,

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

glued with clear nail polish,

her sturdy legs pegged

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in scuffed oxfords, old gum stuck

to older soles.

Her even older soul

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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;

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arms encircle tray wide enough

to hold

the whole world's troubles

and plenty of food,

as she pours your coffee


no sugar;


the way you need it.


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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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