Seen as an Object

Call me Bambi—
it’s what all my regulars
at the dive bar
I work at
have so
lovingly nicknamed me.

Never thought I’d have a job
where in the description
I’m supposed
to entertain,
wear something low-cut
(just to give a peek)
and smile when even the most
slime-ridden males
try to “work their magic”
and hit on me.

(And when I say “magic” literally
I’ve had a man come in and do tricks
with toothpicks.)

They sit in front of the sink
to watch me bend over
while doing the dishes.
They try to make small talk
so their stare can linger just
a bit longer.
They honestly believe I’m flirting
when all I’m doing is selling them
a drink.

To them—
I’m the bubbly
sugarey-sweet smiling
barely old enough to
drink alcohol
much less pour it for others
girl.

I get ogled at.
Men try to “buy” me
with measly tips thrown on the bar.
they might get a wink for twenty—
but that’s as far as it goes.
I’m worth more than whatever any of them
has in their worn leather wallets.