My Beef

The waiter saw me scoot the slope,

his sigh I saw, a strategy

he knew before, with ready smile,

filed index nail, direction point,

a vacant stall by toilet door.

Would that be site if view were changed,

as pupils learning what at stake,

my wheel chair claiming space of two,

one plate less covered, tip as well,

a flash of how he’d empty seat.

I ordered steak, with spoon to scoop,

the knives were out, though slicing rare,

but I was done, well done in fact,

for that’s my beef, in jerky state,

cilious, super, as aside.