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Truck Stop Waitress
by Amy Partin

Honey, darlin', sugar, baby, anything but Lacey, though
it's here where any Tomfool Dick or Harry
could read it if he cared to, 'stead of leering greasily
like a coyote, licking barbeque sauce off his fingers
as if there's a napkin shortage in Kentucky.

Winking, squeezing, grabbing, sticking out their hands
on the sly like it's an accident when I walk by: some day
I'll sling a handful of nickels at 'em and scream,
"Keep your filthy grubs offa me or I'll run you over, Charlie,
Mack, Ed, Billy honey, darling, sugar, baby."