The waiter brought a mason jar of oily persimmon cubes and soft white cheese.
And a little tin pot of fresh breadsticks, still breathing oven.
And a pretentious glass carafe of water.
And two glasses, two plates, and two quick questions.
Later, the wrong soup, the right salad, sharp with lemon.
A helpful box.
A little sneer for our leftovers.
We tipped the waiter, as if he were a cow,
and he bawled on the floor, wedged between the tables.
And Temple Grandin couldn't save him, she couldn't make him yar.
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