WORKADAY
In the room full of fine diners, a veteran waiter knows to gauge:
Am I dealing here with a little butter, or a serious
Demand? No sense to get flustered. You stifle
One sneeze and swear you’ll erupt
Into a fine-dining mist of steady applause. Such as the poplar’s
Tame, autumn applause. (Because of our
Hesitancy to term it “tepid,” upfront.) One mustn’t be too long
Distracted from her play. Or empires
Of repressed urges will besiege us, sure to put us out of business,
Before one can make it to ten.
TYPO
30
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