His eyes scope the mass of exiting people, <br />Those of whom bundle up, zippers zipped, and then <br />Silently leave him alone; he, with cloth in hand, <br />Arrives at their leftover morsels, their half-sipped water, <br />And clears the mess others have thoughtfully made. <br />Moments now, he reappears from the door, <br />His eyes fixed upon the crumb-stained glass, <br />The checkered top; swooping softly like a hawk <br />Upon his dutiful nest. <br /> <br />With swiftness he cloaks the caked crust counter, <br />No one admires his work except the boy himself, who <br />Silently weaves his magic; he, with swiveling, pivoting, <br />Fearlessly caresses the drying reflection and <br />Eyes the mass of entering people, knowing that their <br />Hungry hands will soon bring his reappearance; <br />There! He glances at his touch-tone work and nods <br />Approvingly, the checkered top beaming broadly. He awaits <br />Behind his personage, his kindness, until the moment comes. <br /> <br />Then they leave and he swoops down again.<br /><br />Jonzo Bandwagoner<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/waiter-boy/
