Coffee fresh, black, and steaming With the unsophisticated bouquet my grandfather would have recognized as the stuff Gurgles at me like an infant As it refreshes the cup gone lukewarm before me I quietly rejoice in simple, childlike joy and think I know why Christ so hated those Laodiceans. “Anythin’ else, luv?” liturgically chants the matron vested in wrinkled calico, But her eyes have already moved on, Taking in the state of the sturdy ivory mugs on the next table. Assessing whether she will be able to stretch the thin, black liquid out Or need to return for a second pot On the hip she can’t afford to have replaced. Her calculating, weary eyes are like my pastor’s yesterday Looking down the line of communicants Absentmindedly intoning “shed for you,” Nearly overpouring “My cup runneth over,” I remark to myself With a smirk… Penitent? I empathize with his dutiful sacerdotalism Perhaps he was thinking of the announcement he forgot to make… Or counting communicants, Or wondering whether he had enough of the too-sweet wine To bless us simple folk without returning to the altar. “No,” I reply, but Unseeing, Unhearing, She has already begun her laborious, well-practiced sachet to the next table. There, its denizens raise their eyes half-expectantly. Can they catch her attention? I wonder. My eyes are raised by her light limp and the sloshing carafe to consider the room, Decked out in faded country print to match her skirt. There spreads a field of gray heads and grayer beards. “’Twas an easy winter,” avers the woolen-suited philosopher Who sells cars a half mile down. “The heater ran less than I reckoned,” The waitress filling his cup absently affirms his observation. “Good thing with the cost of oil,” chimes in his son, the computer programmer In his light khaki turtleneck and skinny jeans, Refusing the coffee, But Gesturing for more hot water As he produces an organic tea bag From the thin black case He carries always. Because his cup is full, The waitress moves unseeing past The unshaven man I see Staring down at muddy boots Below rough denim pants, Shaking his head, Over missing snow, Thinking of wiry Queen Anne’s lace, And the water tables of late July. My eyes follow her light limp And sloshing coffee Around the calico-festooned room To linger on a pair of local teenage Girls? At least we called them that in my day. Do they think of themselves that way? I wonder. The bright uniform of their youth a bloom of yellow and purple Canary and plum, I’ve been haughtily told, Iridescent logos and bright brocade Contrasting starkly with the faded sage Naugahyde. They show each other their phones and giggle Glowering at the other stalls Who cannot share their joke or joy And marvel at the deliberate obtuseness Of the grey beards With their knowledge of snowy seasons and dry. The last drops of bitter black Go down Scorch and swallow I pay my bill And taking the money, She still doesn’t look at me. The bell hanging on the door rattles Not quite ringing Like the sound of absent rain drops On the aluminum overhang. In the not-quite-green turf beside the sidewalk A crocus peers up Canary and plum? Purple and yellow. A dainty herald of the end Of a season not quite begun Exultant in its grey-green tundra. Drinking the last few drops of melted snow. Prophet of a summer dry, Unnourished by the remains of snows Forgotten and unlamented.