POETRY BY FRANKLYN SEARIGHT

FOLKS OF INNSMOUTH

Waitress

Right down that street the dismal restaurant stands.
Within, the waitress plods about to rub
The fly-specked counter clean for those who come
To seek a feast of greasy, grimy grub.
One native, shifty-eyed, strolls through the door;
She saunters over. "Yeah, what d'ya wish?"
He paws the menu. "Gimme cod," he slurs.
But she replies, "Too bad. We're out'a fish."
She studies him through watered, half closed eyes.
His froggy face is flushed from many beers.
Yet, still, he's sort of cute and might be fun,
And she's been dateless all of thirty years.

HOME

Created: May 3, 2003; Updated: August 9, 2004