You were the incredibly hot
yet surprisingly short waitress
at my favorite place on Sixth Street.
I was the customer
in the crisp white button-down…
or is it button-up?
Either way: I asked
if the BBQ pork sandwich was messy
because of the shirt
and you said
“No, no”
and, looking deep
into your low-cut blouse,
I believed you knew
what you were talking about.

The sandwich was messy, though,
and my sparkling, clean,
just-opened shirt
became a crime scene canvas
and I had to cancel my afternoon meetings
because I was a mess.

I’m sorry that your tip
didn’t reflect your beauty
but deducting the cost of the shirt
would have left you owing me money.
In fact, you probably do owe me a shirt.
Come to my place
and hand me that blouse
and maybe we’ll call it even.