I really enjoyed Liza Peterson’s poetry – especially “Ice Cream Cone.” She took a much more lighthearted approach to the problems faced by women and African Americans (and African American women). She managed to turn real issues – manifestations of racism and sexism – into pet peeves for the characters in her poems. But that transformation didn’t take away from the weight of the problems themselves, it just made the characters seem stronger. I got the impression, as an audience member, that both of the characters, from “Ice Cream Cone” and “Waitress,” had actually risen above their respective daily challenges – disgusting sexual suggestions and ignorant customers – and turned them into inside jokes. Nevertheless, I say the weight wasn’t lost because at the end of both poems, the implication was that the characters would deal with the same crap the next day, and the day after, and that there was a problem much bigger than the individual idiots set each woman off on the particular day after which the poems were modeled. The individuals are products of an American culture that okays their behavior, and no matter how many times they get corrected, they will never examine themselves for fault. So, even after I had laughed at “Ice Cream Cone,” I was straight-faced by the last line because it was clear that that wasn’t an isolated episode.