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In a restaurant, the word, corner, is the waiter's
only protection against cacophony.

Without it, the dotted lines flowing from his
and hers orders intersect in explosion of beer

and what's left of plants and animals whose whole
existence has centered around people mouths.

Even still a young man, I have done a lot of waiting.
I have rounded many corners walking too fast

to hear any voice of reason protecting the food,
already paid for, in their hands.

The restaurant has been too busy to service any question
or regret with the detail my smile claims. But I try. Really.

I yell corner! on hopes they'll turn and run, to keep from breaking
things glue can't fix, to keep from wasting the purpose of their hands

on a cheap mixer of beer, confusion, and sometimes awkward glances,
like the one time a table of ten watched me total their entrees and
two desserts

like it was my job. I told them I was new. And sorry. My manager
comped the whole thing, but I'd never earn it back.

The trust of a co-worker is irreparable. As time goes on,
I can't help but notice more and more changing shifts.

In training, they don't tell you about gates, or how eyelids
can be weaved into chain link by careless steps.

Broken plates on the floor look like continents.
So I've started kneeling on the floor, I'm trying.

I'm charting a route to sail away from self-hate,
away from this man who knows failure like a paycheck.

I'm thinking if I look busy, I can stay down here. Maybe
someone will trip over me, see the dotted lines

where porcelain dust has brushed off with my finger,
and stay, to help clean this mess I've circled as many times

as a restaurant parking lot.