Sundays...
#17 of Poetry, both old and new
I work at my grandmother's restaurant in Houston every weekend. At 71, she puts on a brave face at work, but when she gets home, she always needs a cane to walk... so I put on my best smile, help the customers, say "What can I do for you, sir?" Or "Can I help you with your plates?" As I wash dishes, fill the soda fountain, and keep her dream running clean. But at the end of every Sunday, I want nothing more than to collapse into my couch with Ford, my 14 year old Labrador...
Tired...
My eyes burn,
My lungs ache...
The sun wakes me
Through the
Windows.
Dress myself
Wash my face,
It's time to endure
Another day...
Another rush
At the restaurant,
Put on a smile,
And pretend it's
Okay...
But I can't do this
For much longer,
My longest day
Is Sunday...