I push at the napkin container with care,
And extract shoppers’ bundles from my ribs and hair;
At the holder of menus I gingerly shove.
Why can’t it, like the Specials, hang down from above?
The sugar bowl crowds me, the pepper and salt
Glare balefully at me, but is it my fault,
Who must manage his coffee, utensils and plate
On a spot that is roughly four inches by eight?
But at least my blonde waitress encounters no lie
When I answer her question with “No ROOM for pie!”
by Ray Romine Sunday, March 9, 1952
