Owed to a Waitress By Paul Smith

I really owe you a poem but

we see each other infrequently

it’s hard to know what to say

you walk away

when I come in

you’re polite

I’m aloof

we know the art of distance

and trigonometry

then you are gone

with a tray of drinks

I sit alone to think about

who you’re being nice to

and who I can ignore

till you come back

a poem is not going

to pay this bill

you want cash

and all I have is

imaginary numbers

Paul Smith writes poetry & fiction.  He lives in Skokie, Illinois with his wife Flavia.  Sometimes he performs poetry at an open mic in Chicago.  He believes that brevity is the soul of something he read about once, and whatever that something is or was, it should be cut in half immediately.