Waiting

"Table for one?" she asks.
She grabs a menu
and walks so very slowly, painfully it seems.
She must be in her mid-40's.
I do not understand.

When she sets my place,
I see her hands,
fingers bent the way my mother's were,
impossible angles -- arthritic.

The food, when it comes, is delicious.
With a relaxed, uncomplaining face
she sits and watches customers,
awaiting a finished plate
or a half-empty water glass.

She must be here
because she very much wants to be.
She wouldn't think of leaving,
of not working for a living,
I tell myself.

When she comes to clear my plate,
I am ready to tell her to stop,
to go home,
to carry my own selfish mess
to the dish-room.