The Food Service Arcana

They asked for separate checks. All twelve. Cash.

The twelfth guest just wanted a light beer, no glass.

Sat your section three deep while you were in the back.

Bless them — but corporate counts that seat as turned.

Cut the floor at six, then acts shocked at the rush.

None of it covers the POS that fights you back.

They sat at 9:58. The kitchen heard about it.

Nobody told you the table moved itself by the window.

It is the system that gives no place to write it down.

The door has no inside handle. Bang on it and wait.

Same tab, same table, frozen blue at the worst hour.

They finished the plate, then asked to weigh it free.

Two hours on a turn the floor needed back at seven.

You learn at the table, because the board lies.

Corner called clear. The soup met you anyway.

Chained to the clock, both shifts, dark under the eyes.

Root cause: a walk-in nobody on salary would fix.

Even worn thin, you poured it out for them. It mattered.

The phone howls a name the book swears never called.

Doors still locked, sun on your face — just this once, rest.

One more hand goes up to keep the night from ending.

The bus pulls in just as you finally caught your breath.