print previewback CARLY JOY MILLER
Nightshift as a Waitress: When the Regular Arrives
Sweet thing, I’ve strapped
my hands to flags
to wave you over
and my thighs are so pale
and free. I sucked on twenty
lemons to pucker
my mouth shut, yet I’ll whistle
you the proper
order: powdered
sugar on the flapjacks,
coffee that kicks like a bull
without some salt.
You don’t need
to know about my half-
wants, or how the neon
Open sign sparks and chars
the hair on my wrists.
All you know is
I look like milk in the dark,
and you have minutes left
to get me to wail the best blues
of our weekly undoing. 
Nightshift as a Waitress: When the Regular Arrives
Soul's Colony