The lonely waitress

I see her everyday,

taking orders in the diner.

She scurries about,

her voice racing

and hiding the tragedy

that saddens her current days.


She's like so many others

who pour our coffee

and fetch our meals.

forever we've known her,

sassy and silly,

giggly and pouty.


But the tears are there,

courtesy of someone

she thought would always love her

and sent her flowers.


A broken heart aggravated

by a car out of control

on a frozen night.

An old friend who's there

one day and gone the next.


I'm older, yet I seem to know

the sorrow in her heart at times.

Why does loneliness

seem to bridge the gaps?