It’s three in the afternoon,
He is in the bar, drinking alone.
The table adjacent to his is vacant
The waitress gives him attention, scant.

Today, she has fifteen tables to attend
And keep all – louts and gentlemen alike – away from her end.

She barely glimpses, thrice,
Then looks askance …
Her manager has been ribbing her since
HE walked to the bar, in a trance,
And held her hazel-brown glance
On a Friday afternoon, luck by chance.

Cause it was her weekly off, that Friday was
But Nina, her bestie, was down with the flu of sorts.
And she had asked her to pitch in
Knowing else she would lose her chin
And her weekly pay would be thin.

Now Nina watches, standing in the right corner,
She is a little weak after that wretched fever.

She wants to tell her: don’t forget your boots
For girls like us, men barely give two hoots.
The bill comes, anD they get the frigging drift,
They forget your name tag even before they exit the lift.

Forget the tip, junk the flirtatious “when do you go for a puff?”
Once they are home, they know they are better off.

But she knows it ain’t true
Nina is nursing a heart bled blue.

She knows HE won’t be untrue
And give her the chance to rue,
Over unspoken words and vows not taken
Over lost chances and identities mistaken.