diner on 29

there was a waitress
named jeannie
I used to be fond
of back in the day.
she worked
at a diner along 29.
strawberry blonde
with cat green eyes
and a little shamrock
tattoo on her pale meaty arm.
she was a moving violation,
going from table to booth,
hardly a smile,
just a smirk a glance,
a wink.
do you boys need some cream
with that coffee? she'd say.
she wore nylons that came
up to the edge of her
pink skirt, her black
apron.
she knew what she was
doing with what she had.
an actress worthy of an
Oscar. it wasn't the coffee,
or the ham and eggs,
the ambiance
of the place, it was her
sashaying about, those
heels clicking against
the tiles,
that kept
us coming back.