There he stands, my waiter boy
A plate in his nervous hands
trembling in their internal debate
of preceding each other.

He swallows a globule of spit
the size of his Adams apple
And serves the couple on his right
holding hands like super glue
And they drink from the same glass.

He dishes out rice
and untangles his buttons splitting sweat
This would never end, he knows
Even if tomorrow should be the Day of Judgement
Announced on the stained television screen
His hands would find new ways
To uncork a bottle
and to swipe a tip.

He sits down in a corner
Laughter filling up the opposite end
And throws away his apron
Deciding his children's menu
Silently in heart beats.

-- Nabeela Altaf