The Waiter Waits

The talk was desultory and trite

 In that squalid eatery.

 The oil splattered wall paper hung down in greasy strips

 And smoke billowed forth from purple lips.

On a three legged chair the owner snored

People hunched over tables absolutely bored

 Punching numbers on cellphones, deleting memories stored.   

An ancient clock with broken hands lazily ticked

 For lack of anything better to do, a man with tangled hair

 His fingers licked.  

[As though the licking would magically untangle his hair.  ]

Others wrangled over some ideas new fangled

 In a corner a golden haired boy his sobs strangled.

Filled with unease, looking at a blob of grease

 Assaulted by memories. 

"Waiter", Someone shouted.

 He shook away those memories of a home

 Where  they called him, Raja, here he was waiter

And yes for the snorer a third –rater.

  

Ah, he was missing his small, warm cottage,

 In the village,  yet again.

Resolutely he got up, ignoring the pain  

Closing his ears to the chugging of the train

He was a waiter, he could wait,   waiting was in his grain.