On topics of being overworked,

My feet know the pull

Of lady physics in the sand.

Reaching for tables and trays

To right yourself and

Write yourself in a daily dose

Of American something or other.

Poetry is the dance you do between tables

When everyone is angry at you,

Or the time spent out back

Avoiding their stares.

There’s beauty in being worked

Raw to the bone,

But it all exists in how you choose

To wake up to the next day’s dawn.