Table for Two

the carriage shimmered in heat
too surreal for asphalt boulevards, and
counting horses as they glided by
our table made up for
tears of use.

no master whipped gaily, each horse
kept step easily, with lathered
hips grinding through smog.

daily events like these
upset most tourists, used to service
without distractions.

one plum pie served
with ice cream, one large dollop of potato
salad on a bun, three waitresses taking breaks
off the rear exit, their lit
cigarettes glowing brightly
in the steam heat.

wine poured, yes, but why,
since the delicate glasses were chipped
by vagrant dishwashers hiding
in dark cellars?

from far away they came, eager
for American life, no
photo identification
needed, but customers
smirked at accents
deep in excuses.

would they be fired tonight?