Don's Cafe

She had gotten up so early
to open the door at six,
turn the light on against the rain,
brew the coffee and tie her apron on.

They were already waiting,
the regulars, quiet men in seed company hats
who would want to eat eggs
and talk about the weather.
They knew her and would tip her
ten percent in quarters and well-worn dollar bills.

Two more were standing outside the doors,
two students with dripping hair,
sweaters that would soon seem to steam
in the greasy flourescent air.
Only lovers could smile so beatifically,
they were so marvellously tired,
smudgy with spring.
She took them in, gave them the small table
so their knees could touch.
They ordered without menus, giddy,
already shining with her cheer.

Thick food on clattering plates
balanced on her arm as she crowed, crooned, coaxed,
bustling away her sleep, filling cups,
watching her children eat.
She called them sweeties and they were sweet;
She called them honey and they bloomed.

When they finished, the boy and girl,
the rain had stopped, the streetlights had flipped off.
They paid her, tried to repay her,
they had been up all night in love
and she had filled them with warmth,
even the table was warm when she lifted their plates,
for a moment their hands pressed into the circle of heat she left behind.
She grinned, they smiled,
it was morning and they smiled.