Truck Stop Angels (an adaptation)

- Trust here that the prelude belongs to an entirely different individual; he spoke in unpublished and un-hushed tones about a breed of femininity that was exuberated by modernity of women in service settings. Unfortunately his callous thesis (drummed up while his lover was in a brief stay at a mental hospital) lacked the attempted feminist tone, and suffered us only his mild interpretation at being a lusty object with a frown and soiled apron. -

When you spoke of Goddesses in pale sodium light,
Angelic wings under tunics,
Under heavy laminated name badges,
That read something like “I can help”,
And “my name is Suzie”

When you illuminated us to truck stop venues,
That quench a myriad of hospitable deity,
Bent over slices of cherry pie,
Examining each side of the toast,
Doling out the little jellies so everyone can get something besides grape.

When you dared us to look under the epaulets,
And beneath the loose aprons,
To sober fledgling Angels,
To make viable and persuasive homage,
To they that still labor with unknown names of sainthood.

To those hearts that flitter,
When some half emptied sugar bowl is lifted,
Is elevated in the procession of cleaning,
And found beneath,
Is a crumpled five?

They too elevated,
Ambient beings, merely halo’s to the meal less eye,
Read about only in waterproofed menu’s,
Beneath items like grits and corned beef,
And mentioned in every jukebox love song.

You like to imagine,
Each young and whimsy fed mind,
Alert to your scribant ways,
Wondering with open mouths or braces exposed,
Will it be their big break into formal canonization?

The miracles performed are as follows;
Not spilling even a scalding drop upon you,
Carrying those large trays,
Piled with your filthy dishes,
Even higher than her eyes.

Angels that sweat slyly under casual starch,
That sneak cigarette break out the back door,
They thumb sexy novels before shift,
They gather and laugh at the leering men,
Even the ones that scribble away at their note pads.

Should god shed them no mercy,
For they are the milk of his breast,
As you look at the slim hip,
Of some nubile barista,
Plying you with dark black eyes and creamer.

And they work too in harshly lit shopping centers,
And fortunate back road 7-11’s,
That greet you with gasoline and grins,
And thrumming fluorescents,
And ripe biblical fodder draped femininely across the countertop.

- A footnote is relevant here for the purpose of clarifying motive in the multi part deconstruction of feminine objectification amongst service positions. There is no underlying PR concern in the blood, bear that in mind; just a hearty dissatisfaction with sycophantic gender praise that underlies a prior authors disabilities at coping with an apathetic wife to be. -

· References (angels under fluorescent lights) by Josh
· See Also (A Radical Defense by Josh) by Josh
· See Also (A Reassurance to Josh) By Johny