I hope she notices the comped drink, or fries overflowing when fries don’t usually overflow here I’m sorry, or that time I swatted a fly away and caught it, dice in hand, heart in gullet. Ribs like cow grids in the Midwest, her buttery eyes falling through me like hooves, I carry her dirty plates away. Spotlights nipple the ceiling. I can make everything alive. Maybe she asks me out and says I’ll wait on you for once and she loves me that night, and so what if she says the gold ring I get her is the colour of dehydrated piss? I smell the back-up fryer being used in the kitchen, and still I’m here, waiting on her.
Lunch Shift
I hope she notices the comped drink, or fries overflowing when fries don’t usually overflow here I’m sorry, or that time I swatted a fly away and caught it, dice in hand, heart in gullet. Ribs like cow grids in the Midwest, her buttery eyes falling through me like hooves, I carry her dirty plates away. Spotlights nipple the ceiling. I can make everything alive. Maybe she asks me out and says I’ll wait on you for once and she loves me that night, and so what if she says the gold ring I get her is the colour of dehydrated piss? I smell the back-up fryer being used in the kitchen, and still I’m here, waiting on her.
Issue 7
https://manyworlds.place/issue-7/ewen-glass/
by Ewen Glass
Ewen Glass (he/him) is a screenwriter and poet from Northern Ireland who lives with two dogs, a tortoise and lots of self-doubt; his poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Okay Donkey, HAD, Poetry Scotland, Roi Fainéant, Bridge Eight and elsewhere. Twitter & IG: @ewenglass