for her torn vinyl booths,
mismatched salt and pepper shakers,
and tempermental coffee maker...
for her regular customers
who stop in every morning
to sit and sip
while i stand behind the counter...
for the long liar's table,
where lonely widowed women flock
like greedy geese
to daily gossip...
there is magic in her walls:
antique white,
stained yellow by thirty-six years
of nicotine
and beauty in her green goblets,
cranberry cloths,
and wooden beam ceiling
there is a spirit here
that cannot be destroyed,
and it comforts me
as i hand back my key
and give my day
to help you
go
i will always remember the times
spent laughing together
down at the bar
past closing time...
your
lips
locking
ice-cold bottles of bud
and
my
hand
holding
happiness:
a pepsi paradise...
there is an eerie stillness
as we lock the door
and leave together,
for the spirit of the restaurant
lies silent
but the budding flowers
in the concrete pots outside
bring hope--
her time is not over--
she will bloom
again.
