The cute waitress at the Alembic has
hair red as Ann Margaret’s, eyes liquid
lined like Marilyn, Sophia Loren. She’s
beautiful, always looks high.
Peonies and poppies, koi and flowering
vines on her soft shoulders, American thighs.
She has freckles, a little lisp. Angela,
from Wisconsin, who was in the Army
eight years. This is what a veteran looks like
now, I keep telling myself, on the sidewalk
after her shift while she drinks, talks
about driving trucks into Baghdad, rolls
her eyes about the VA, being brave. She laughs
about self-medicating PTSD, how the earthquake
the other day made her think IED.
I light her cigarette, laugh with her,
squeeze her elbow, thinking Fucking A.