Lunch Line

Lunch Line

The hair kept up with a bandana
Her face free; her hands constricted
She moves, wipes the counter free of grease
Her hands constricted; latex gloves squeeze
Them lightly as she toils

What of her is also constricted?
What of her is also free? A line builds up...

She moves swift; the order is placed
Her production interrupted-
The order interrupted by another-
The next one comes
Her eyes look up; her hands remain down
Toiling
Is part of her free? And what part?
What part of her is not free? And why so?
Is there no choice, or has she made it?

Music playing; familiar song, she knows who
She once told me so
She moves along, one after another...swifter now
Her toiling hands, dirty now- yet another time they
Played the guitar
An electric guitar, fender. Her same hands that strum the chords now clean the grill
They sweep out grease, where once they played music
A scale perhaps, or maybe just a melody
Maybe a doleful melody- a tribute to music...
A tribute, perhaps, to ephemeral liberty
A melody- or maybe just a rock song

But she is kind, and does not judge
Friendly, courteous; weary and real
She toils now- out of need, not of penance
She has done nothing wrong
Presumptuous it seems that ever had a moment of spite existed
Had ever an unholy day seen past night
Others line up, oblivious, unaware
She toils, not oblivious of them; focused
Are they as kind? Are they as real? Are they as holy?
Has a deed ever befallen another at their hands-
That they had not lived to regret?

My place in line now ends, with speed I am ushered to the register-
Ushered out the door so another can replace me
My thoughts still on the line, still on the girl-
Whose hands toil while she cleans, whose hair remains tied with the bandana
I look back; the line is long, I cannot see
It's time, anyways, to go back to work.