One summer as a teen I waited tables
at a local greasy spoon for college cash.
I did the best job there that I was able,
but can sympathize with those typecast white trash.
When a lull occurred, I was told to mash
potatoes, and like the Cinderella fable,
had to clean the grill, rake out the ash—
one summer as a teen I waited tables.
Though college-bound, I lacked any labels;
no one knew that as a student I had flash,
that I was working (so that I could pay bills)
at a local greasy spoon for college cash;
and had to be calm, not do something rash
or give a sign that I might be unstable—
like party all night at a frenzied bash—
I did the best job there that I was able;
yet to smile and smile I was unable—
I’d bite my tongue, my teeth I’d gnash;
there was no way that I would ever play ball,
but can sympathize with those typecast white trash.
Though they use no whip, nor beat you with a lash,
a waitress job can sometimes become fatal
to one’s self-worth, which suffers a big crash
without a chance to turn the tables
as a teen.
Editor's note: The form of this poem is a rondeau redouble.
Alison Jennings is a Seattle-based poet who began submitting her work after retiring from public school teaching. She recently had 30 poems published in various literary journals. Please visit her website: https://sites.google.com/view/airandfirepoet/home