The Maitre d'

by Andrea Fakete

He loosens his tuxedo shirt

just at the top,

stands out behind the restaurant.

It will be closed within the hour.

He looks strong

even when he's tired.

He has poured champagne tonight

with a loose, sure wrist.

he has smiled for plastic faces,

debutantes and wealthier men,

and told me I'm too slow

when I prepare rack of lamb tableside.

I know people say he's bourgeois,

probably because he's black.

He reads. He's had dinner with Alice Walker.

Everyone in town knows him and passes on

the street saying call me.

He has fixtures in his apartment from Thailand,

Switzerland and antiques.

He has knowledge, taste.

He keeps up appearances, always seems

together.

He's one man whose respect I'd like to have

but not for all those reasons.

Just at this moment, as he tugs at his cuffs and sighs,

I see the color of grapes, like wine

under his fragile smile.

He is like a monument,

but moves slow as weeds on ocean floor,

from table to table

and their minds

too small

to see his fire

roiling under

his sure eyes.

********************

Andrea Fakete did graduate studies at Marshall University, and has edited an anthology of Appalachian fiction and poetry.  She has also contributed papers to national conferences on the works of Shakespeare.  And that's just the tip of the iceberg.

You can read more of her work in the March 2008 print Aoife's Kiss, a copy of which you can [and really ought to] order by clicking on the cover icon below.