The 3am thoughts of a waiter

A greasy wet rag,

Wipes 90% of this plastic smile.

A group of wincing, chirpy voices,

And begrudging grunts.

No common knowledge,

Just forced labor and angry dishes.

It hurts; my spine.

They hurt; my feet.

All for those crumbled numbers,

For those simple smiles.

The step on the crusty mat,

To create the wonderful smack.

The creak of a door, I look.

Neck cocked, a breath of relief.

Those two bundles are all I need.