my friend mr. lincoln

the maître d is purposely
a little
snobby, a little uptight
in his dark suit
and white shirt, his
bold red tie with flecks
of gold.
he looks
down at the hungry
people gathering
at the door
reservations? he says,
hardly making eye contact.
there's a three hour
wait, he sniffs,
but please have a seat
at the bar
and we'll let you know
when a table becomes
available.
three drinks later, he
doesn't budge when I go
up to his pedestal.
you're on the list sir,
he says.
there are seven people ahead
of you.
please, be patient.
have you met my friend mr.
Lincoln, I tell him,
casually shaking a five
dollar bill in front of him.
no, I haven't he says.
but if he has some friends,
such as mr. grant
or Hamilton, perhaps we could
seat you sooner.