Tipping the Waiter

Since she lost your arms
she is finding furniture quite supportive.

Asked to dine by the table,
shown to her seat by the chair,
she converses with the salt;
peppers hot topics on the napkin of the one not there.

Another smiling waitress opens a can of laughter,
and unarmed, not even by a notebook,
asks her to leave the Menu
while her dinner cooks.

She knows to leave the flower,
for the woman who dines alone
may read a candle-lit fable to the table,
raising a glass to the rose.