The Cafe (Vol. 2 Pt. 1)

I am back

to the familiar tingtinging

of forks on plate.

To the what’ll-it-bes

and the hows-it-goings.

The waitress who still calls me ‘hun’. 

                             ‘We drinking coffee today?’ She asks.
                              She must want some too.
                              ‘Black please’  

I walked here with my neighbor

Spoke of an old man, George

who once was a boy 

with ice skates

with which he discovered a road through this city

that led him to his school in the winter time.

As long as he didn’t fall in.

                              ‘You gonna need a menu?” She asks
                               Sure. I have a friend joining me by the way.
                              ‘Alright darlin’, I’ll be back with that coffee’

It is spring. 

There are children here. 

You can tell by their jitters

egged on by a sun who seems to have come back to us

Still a bit of wild left in them

to mom’s chagrin.

Before they grow up and have to starch their shirt collars

they will go home 

and enjoy their weekend

                              ‘You boys ready ta order?’ 
                               (My friend has arrived) 
                               and we have decided to order the monstrous grease ball
                               with a complimentary fried egg to top it

The waitresses still laugh here

and the same pictures are on the wall.

They’ll squeeze behind you

to change the thermostat.

Drop knives and make jokes about

trying to kill you. 

Don’t forget to tip her well. 

                              Saturday morning at the cafe. 



Cafe poems from last year: 

Part 1 & 2:
Part 3:
Part 4:
Part 5:
Final installment:


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