by Brianna Reckeweg                                                               

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Still tying back her hair and breathing rail drinks

still, she punches in and hits her apron

pockets through the swinging doors. The smokes are there. 

She just might make it. No wrong eggs today,

like hard instead of easy, in the heat lamp. 

Maybe Sarah got em first, who's lived on beans

for weeks. Or Deb who still, at forty,

hasn’t found a good relationship

with food. No eggs, she pours a coffee, black,

and smokes before she asks the others what they need. 

She smiles through slits for eyes because it’s not

her job she hates. The tiny hammers hit

like pinches - always worse when small - above

her brows.  8:20 in the morning now.

Another four top. Getting busy.

Bloody Mary after work to clear her head. 

She pats her pocket. Soon as she gets

these pancakes out and juice to table four, 

another smoke to clear her head. Something

to stop the pounding. You can be more than this.