Waiting Tables

We sail across the ocean
to sell smiles and shine tiles.
Bold girls with bottomless eyes
make violent love to shiny poles
under dim lights and blue windows
before woozy audiences flipping
dollar bills, whispering erotica.
Our innocence died at sea
when we dared to take the dreaded
pilgrimage to the Promised Land.
Pride and sound manners either blew
in the tempest or got lost in the frost
leaving only skin and bones.
Our forefathers were victims of the trade,
forced on board to toil abroad.
But we resigned to partake of the trade.
Hard work is a long suffering spirit
that refuses to be buried in the furrows of time.
So we sweep the electric avenues by day
and wait tables at night;
the extended family has to eat.