My Waitress

One night, I took the waitress home.
I really couldn’t tell you why;
It wasn’t on my bucket list
Of things to do before I die

The only thing I felt, I guess,
Was between lust and loneliness;
And I can only now confess
The depths, then, of my selfishness

Why she said “yes,” I couldn’t say.
But recall as though yesterday,
The hope that I saw in her eyes,
That in dismay and with surprise

I knew meant she was wanting more.
A more I did not have to give:
I should have ordered some dessert
And kept my peace, and let her live.

But that was many years ago.
She has moved on, and so have I:
But once, I took the waitress home,
And I can’t really tell you

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