My waitress had a constellation on the back of her neck,
spit politics out the side of her mouth,
hid her age with a smile.
She held 4 conversations in the palm of her hand.
Her mouth struck like a match
whose burnt aftertaste bent a question into m mind.
I looked away as she poured my coffee.
Thanked her softly.
You don't just go around asking to tip your waitress in kisses
Maybe I came on too strong,
like a poet with peppers falling out her mouth.