Afterwards, you're never the same--
you leave larger tips than you can really
afford, remembering the tired feet,
pantyhose stripped down over knees
and calves so sore that massaging them,
collapsed on the edge of your unmade bed,
didn't help. Living from week to week
on crumpled dollars stuffed in a bureau drawer.
Greasy film on your hair and skin. Clothes
stained with coffee. You instinctively wipe
the tables at MacDonald's before you get up to go.
In busy cafes you stack the finished dishes
to one side, return the busboy's harried smile.
Admire some smooth choreography
behind the counter. You never spill salt
or aimlessly tear at colored packets
of sugar, waiting for this or that lover
to find his way back from the bathroom of a diner.
Your face shines with a recognizable patience.
The flung fork picked up from the floor, stray
spoons retrieved from between the seats:
it's automatic, a habit you barely realize--
the first to get up, reaching for napkins,
pulling the heated bread out of the oven.
You wipe the drop of soup from the bowl's lip
before setting it down in front of your son
or your mother. And in those crowded rooms--
Thanksgiving or a family wedding--the soft call
of your elbow's crease, confident, aching
again for the balanced plate.