The Maynard
Spring 2016

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Straight Waiting

All the straight waiters at work
make it a point to touch me
once a shift at least, to treat me
to the same fraternal gestures:
the shoulder-hold, the fist-bump,
one of those inane handshakes
they dole out in high school
                I still can’t seem to do.
Robert, the elder waiter, prefers
a gentle backslap. Dominic,
of “pure French Creole” stock,
backhands my bicep all shift,
                chirpin’ “Ya heard me?”
Marquis, one of the bussers,
bulldozes my shoulder blades
with his forehead.
When I point out this straight
male propensity for physical
affection to Dinos, he says
                “You’re just saying that
cuz you’re gay,” and he’s right;
that doesn’t make me wrong.