masters of business administration
the waitress is dancing to “Rhythm-a-ning:”
waving a menu like a Japanese fan
Monk would have danced in circles
but she’s walking in a straight line
serving drinks to the investment bankers
who don’t give a shit about music
they talk about their kids
like they’re closing a deal
while the drummer trades fast fours
with a guitarist he’s known for years
but back to the waitress:
she’s dressed like management demands
shorts that are more suggestion than reality
bringing martinis and wine to cigar-
smoking owners of local car dealerships
she’s in college, she says, majoring in
“interdisciplinary studies,†which turns out
to mean business marketing and law
she’s part of the problem, or wants to be
maybe in a few years she’ll be one of the
dead-eyed pillars of the community
like the oxford-shirted tools sitting with their
bleached wives, wondering if they can slip
the waitress their phone numbers for a
downtown lunchtime rendezvous
Monk was a family man who danced
because he couldn’t imagine not dancing
if he were here he’d be the only black face
the only person who’s never practiced smiling
21 June 2012
Knoxville, TN
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