under a coincidentally placed painting
of Uncle Pecos
from Tom & Jerry,
eating breakfast—
pancakes for the table
—mentioning the matrix
with Abigail.
Our server
is an attractive woman with face tattoos,
a canvas so bold,
she's a story herself,
her visage displayed,
a tale of her journey,
her own matrix,
made of inside jokes,
doubtless,
with yoga friends,
and bearded men.
In a corner booth,
where the morning sun does play past the creepy kitchen staff,
a plea arose with Abby's yawn,
"the waitress is into you," she says,
but I exclaim no way,
because I am rusty
and never think that way.
To prove this,
one embarrassing break or another,
I asked Brittany not if Abby were right,
but that we had a wager
and I bet she could gather the stakes
if she looked at my face,
and if I were right
she should leave the plate,
but if Abby were correct,
she should take the pancakes away.