Lacy

Down home cooking is what’s on the menu,
and the antiques and posters
and wall of ceramic painted plates
remind me of home long gone,
although I bit nicer than
what I grew up with.
The dining area is small, there aren’t many tables,
the place is small, the kitchen must be tiny,
and you’re the only server and cashier.

Your hair is black, your eyes blue,
your mouth and nose petite
in the middle of your face.
You might be eighteen,
or as old as twenty three;
if asked, I’d guess high
so you’d like me.

I sip my iced tea and listen to you complain,
“It’s too hot in here, I’m burning up.”
You clatter a bit as you trip over a baby seat
and knock over a tray table.
You can take off your white sleeveless top
and reveal your nicely filled black sports bra if you want,
but I bet with the “Jesus” carved on a block behind the cash register
and the country music on the speakers
that’s not possible.

Eating my tasty chicken fried steak
with potatoes, gravy and green beans,
I keep my head downward,
so you don’t catch me admiring
your firm young breasts and backside
as you walk by
with food for the other diners.

You’ve probably got some nice young
Redneck garage mechanic or carpenter
waiting for you on the porch somewhere,
or if not, you want one badly.
I’m comfortable with who I and where I am,
so I’ll just enjoy the view for what it is.

I give you my love as I can:
a smile, a friendly, platonic wink,
a hope that your day gets better
as I pay my tab,
and a slightly bigger tip than necessary
for admiring your nubile anatomy.