Service
by Tod Caviness
We don’t like you.
We don’t like you and we don’t care
if your wings are too hot
or your drink is too wet
or what your allergies are.
We say that we do,
and we say it with smiles
but not for too long
or our faces will melt onto your plate
from the strain.
It’s nothing personal.
If anything, it’s a complaint disparity:
you get to and we don’t.
Ming the Merciless was always right.
Genghis Khan was always right.
Adolf Hitler was always right
because those people had guns
or sharp axes, at least.
All you have is a stupid hat
with goofy ears
and a credit card.
But that’s just as good
and our revenge only comes
in children’s size:
Making you wait that extra few minutes.
Helping ourself to a half of a fry.
Calling you “folks”
as in “How are you folks?”
because folks sounds just enough like “fucks”
that we can get away with that too.
We just don’t like you.
Your kids, on the other hand,
know us well.
They look up from their highchair prison
with teary, honest eyes
and get the only genuine smile of the day.
And they give us one back
skimming a ketchup bottle across the table
and over the side into your lap.
Here, let me get that for you.
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