Crater Lake shrinks, becoming more distant in my mirror
I drive until the first diner, coffee my motivation
Fresh. Hot. Coffee.
the name of this place forgotten
perhaps even by locals
I take a seat at the counter
as the only patron in the place
and look towards the waitress
she moves towards me, expressionless
thrilled to be working on a Thursday morning
mumbling thoughts of a dark steaming beverage
I leave my travel cup in her care
it needs to be rinsed but I don't expect it
sure enough, I'm not let down.
steeling off to the restroom I do my best to rinse up
upon returning, my mug is filled
I give her eighty five cents for the coffee
leave double for tip, and have to ask for cream
she was cute enough, too young for me
I hope she finds her way out from behind the counter.
before long she'll become like the restaurant's road sign-
permanent, faded, and forgotten
Reminds me of a couple of poems I wrote about Cafe Roma in Davis:
ReplyDeleteImpressions at Cafe Roma, 8:41 AM 12/05/2006
I was going to write
"They are all phantoms here..."
Arrogant, you might say, and I'd agree.
For here I am as well,
our forms mesh and separate
without sound or feeling.
Then, a couple young women are standing at the register.
Innocent (yes, on my scale, which ends at cosmic and universal guilt),
beautiful, yes, winsome, yes
a plaintive optimism and vague hope on their fresh faces.
How I long to recover that for myself,
which, at best, is all that's permitted me:
a sad, featureless man of 62.
or
Outside the Cafe Roma (now defunct) 07/18/13
Outside the Cafe Roma (now defunct),
a hearty breeze is pushing the leaves
around the sidewalk and into every recessed doorway.
It's late summer, and the light
though heavy and warm, is looking
a little tired, a little hazy;
a harbinger, perhaps, like the leaves,
of impending Autumn.
Its a busy morning at the Roma,
including, I note as I leave,
a girl in shorts, with very nice legs,
scribbling furiously in a notebook.
Outside, I put on my backpack, pull my bike from the rack,
take a few steps back for one last look at her shapely thighs
-and trip, my bike and I in a noisy, clattering pratfall.
And in front of everyone!
There is a small field of grace
just outside the doors of the Roma,
and it won't stand for that:
The distracted monk receives a swat from the master.