Now Hiring:
The Night Shift Waitress
and Other Ghosts

For three years the Collegeville
Diner has been hiring
for a night shift waitress 
on the weekends-- 
They call to her with 
square letters
settled on the billboard.
A prophecy sun faded
like smoker's teeth.
The stop lights
perform across the diner's 
face each night in the melancholic 
dance between green, yellow, red
green, yellow, red--
red-red-red-red
and there's no more pickup trucks to
stop to watch the lights arabesque--
The cars have all crawled home 
on their hands
and knees to avoid the ghosts here--
the one who re-reads the same
Inquirer from 1967 at the bus stop--
the ones sitting on their bicycles outside 
Quick Stop-- they spill slushies 
and hurl stale pretzel twists every night--
we all learned to read these acts as omens
--some order caramel ice
cream sundaes from McDonalds at 
four a.m. in November--
leave the spoons on the curb
like finger bones--
And of course
The ghost of the last night shift
waitress keeps guard over
her duties-- refuses every replacement
her boss brings in-- girls
with chipped nail-polish, 
blue lip stick, and square glasses
on string-- everyone has quit before
their first night's end--
they don't want to compete against
a phantom-- the night shift waitress
holds onto her black tray-- shuttles
The cherry-topped heads of
vanilla milk shakes on her hip--
refills the fountain sodas
of men curled like rusted
springs in booth seats--
The manager tells her
that it's time for her to go home--
he throws out her time card every week
and she always makes another one--
fills out her hours but never
demands a pay check--
She continues to turn on the waffle irons
too early-- scoops batter
while the manager tries
to exorcise her spirit by dumping
the tip jar on the floor of
the kitchen-- he tells
her he'll pay minimum wage--
he'll give her more smoke
breaks-- he'll give her Christmas Eve
off this year but she doesn't listen
anymore-- she's learned 
not to believe in anything but
clocks and the constant rotation
of cherry and meringue pies in the 
dessert display--she shuttles burgers
to the ghosts of truck drivers--
steals homefries for her dinner--
writes her name in ketchup and mustard 
in the sinks-- stacks 
waffles next to the towel rack
-- drizzles the syrup-ed 
strawberries over the cash register
and laughs and laughs and laughs.
She alone watches the arabesque of
the red stop light-- 
bakes the whoopie pies just
to roll them like truck tires 
out the front door.
The night waitress gets off
at the first sights of the sun.
6 a. m. she perches on the porch
and counts the money from the tip jar.
Take tomorrow off
Take tomorrow off
the manager pleads--
and she looks at the smoker's teeth
of the billboard and cackles before
she leaves to re-read the paper
from 1967 before her bus 
to return again the next night.
The manager counts the red stop 
lights-- wipes the strawberries
off the register and counts 
the stacks dollar bills
for comfort-- looks 
out to read the prophecies
the ghosts wrote in slushies and 
stale pretzel--
sleeps whipped cream and cherry-headed
with a the night waitress
lingering above his bed like a 
stop light.