She talks like someone with nothing to lose,
And at two-fifteen an hour an ego-bruise
Ain’t the worst she’s faced.
A double-shot of Patrón and an orange slice
Later and her 15 are up; time to make nice:
A second shift awaits next door.
A lifetime of put-ons and fake smiles
Wizened her to men and their wiles,
And gave her crippling resentment.
She slides off the stool, dusting off dreams,
Straightening the world’s weight at the seams
Of an apron that’ll never come clean.
She’s learned the tricks: a smile and a wink
Keep them blabbing and drowning in drink.
She knows to conceal the winces and sighs.
One shift down, and still another calls.
Whiskey, bullshit, and nauseating stalls,
Friendly and unwelcome hands lingering too long.
The rent’s due and her baby needs meds.
Fuck it. Tighter shirts turn more heads.
Trading skin for a bottle of pills.
As if she has any real choice.
“Bootstraps!” echoes an asshole’s voice.
She has no goddamn boots.
