Next town over, the classic burger joint
remembers Rosie the Riveter, bombers,
stiff olive drab greatcoats, kamikaze.

The young blonde waitress wears the same green drab.
She is so tiny, she’d be the same size
as the little Polish woman at church,

the one who wears tight white curls, sells Avon,
is a concentration camp survivor
but doesn’t have any tattoo, thank God.

The waitress has a tattoo on her neck,
wings of a butterfly curl up to cup
her hairline, shy beneath the ponytail.

“Nice ink,” I say, “Where’d you get the tattoo?”
“The Armadillo,” she answers, then gives
a quick lesson in local ink artists.

Who knew? A poster across the room shows
a factory gal with a forearm tat,
a tough one whose eyes met the camera.


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