Pecking order

It's hard to look down your nose at a waiter -
literally - he: up there, trained pride with his towel
draped like he's got self-harm to hide. You: child's view.
One plate on the wrist is worth two in the hand, but something
else whirrs around; the cogs, the cogs. Let it be logged
that "waiter" is one letter away from being "writer". A fighter.

These are the specials: waiters have power. They decide
what's off the menu; if spit or manshit is on it; and if
you want it, Gringo, just tell that body-lingo of yours to cater
for disdain; or the waiter that you'll "be his customer tonight".
Most waiters are equity-card chasers; can do a good saint
and the patience thereof. A lost play by Chekov: Restraint.

And now, to finish, coffees. After eight, the mints. No more
hints re: the connection between this and what keeps the
world ticking over. The meal is done. The muse is over.
Just to say, the daddy of the prison didn't get there with
eye contact, facing up, tips from assertiveness courses,

after that dispute about what to watch - The Premiership
versus Only Fools and Horses - a much fancied pretender
lost. There was only one contender. He who walked away
and only returned with a ball in a sock or a blade in a nail
when the other's back was turned. Didn't see it coming.