The line snakes through the serpentine
(I don’t touch the rail in flu season).

“Meat, mam?”

Virginia works the line
Orders to the ladle lady,
“Meat loaf, fried chicken, catfish…”
all through her shift.
(I suspect roaches rule the night here.)

She is popcorn hair, pipe cleaner body,
starch crackle servant dress,
smile crinkle eyes,
white and dry, surprisingly spry.
The customers like her.

Her voice rides the crest of cookware clatter,
“Would you like a meat, sir?”

I am a regular, so she tells the ladle lady,
“Pile it high, he’s my boyfriend,”
so I get some extra.

Then for a week or so,
I note Virginia’s absence, so I ask why.
The salad lady has the low down,
“A stroke, left side froze,
she needs a series of shots,
a thousand bucks a pop.
They say she’ll never leave The Oaks,
(I suspect roaches rule the night there.)
not without those shots”

Things change, a little.
Sure, the sweat lipped bread lady
still hunches like a mole,
but the new meat lady doesn’t know me,
so I don’t get extra.
I can tell the customers don’t like her
but Virginia won’t be back,
not without those shots.

01/22/2005

Posted on 01/22/2005
Copyright © 2026 David Hill