it's 2 a.m.

the waitress,
mid life in pink. her hair
up
in a yellow ribbon.
her hips
thick,
her legs once could stop
a clock,
coming or going.
too much lipstick, to much
sauce.
what brings her here
at two a m.
carrying plates of ham and eggs,
scrapple,
and coffee
to the night crowd,
half lit from beer, from wine,
from gin.
the truckers, the cabbies.
she's seen it all.
done it all.
the kids are grown, the husband
run off
with a best friend.
she's working.
she's alive under this silver
moon.
her feet hurt.
her pockets full of change,
and closing time is never
quite around
the bend.