CPJournal #5

First Waitress

Outside, the still

of crickets.

Inside, petals

of a cold sore

foliate,

a boutonniere

for full lips.

Looking up, I tell her

two eggs, basted,

hash browns,

coffee now.

Later on,

she says

the birthmark

I found

south of her navel

she’s had

all her life.

© Donal Mahoney/Parts Unknown

Covert Press

© 2008 covert poetics last updated 7/4/08