The Waiter

She leaves the book closed
to her heart
and any inquiry
of love.
It is a book of paintings–
Monet, perhaps,
Rembrandt
or a scant
sketcher of her fancy.
She keeps a calendar
of every hour
of idleness
that she chances
work.
Now, at bedtime,
she locks
the clasp
of her diary
she has kept ever
since she was a child
during the times her wild
father tipped the bottle
and mottled
the family furniture
with every misadventure.
She dreams of adventure,
but the man at her side
is her father all over, the pride
and fury.
She knows when she buries
him she will finally win,
but meantime she watches
him sip his gin
and humors him.

Posted in Perspective, Poetry