His eyes scope the mass of exiting people,
Those of whom bundle up, zippers zipped, and then
Silently leave him alone; he, with cloth in hand,
Arrives at their leftover morsels, their half-sipped water,
And clears the mess others have thoughtfully made.
Moments now, he reappears from the door,
His eyes fixed upon the crumb-stained glass,
The checkered top; swooping softly like a hawk
Upon his dutiful nest.
With swiftness he cloaks the caked crust counter,
No one admires his work except the boy himself, who
Silently weaves his magic; he, with swiveling, pivoting,
Fearlessly caresses the drying reflection and
Eyes the mass of entering people, knowing that their
Hungry hands will soon bring his reappearance;
There! He glances at his touch-tone work and nods
Approvingly, the checkered top beaming broadly. He awaits
Behind his personage, his kindness, until the moment comes.
Then they leave and he swoops down again.
Jonzo Bandwagoner
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/waiter-boy/
