that he hasn’t been here since it was Richardsons.
the funeral arrangements, thanking for condolences.
There will be a private burial, he chokes.
The plates are clanking, the aromas strong.
He’s thinking of another time and another place,
a person he lost from back when this was Richardsons.
A young couple with a fuss about where to sit,
a silent scold.
Then they sit and they eat
with no words, just resistance.
They weren’t here when this was Richardsons.
The mail carrier stops for his short break
checks email, sips hot cocoa
and chats with regulars.
He keeps his beard always the same.
Her gruff voice interrupts my thoughts,
and a familiar face with smoky breath
smiles down at me.
“There ya go, honey.”
The machines whir, the employees flit,
The lady with the yellow and black hat
laughs at how she matches the tablecloths.
A boy and his mom sit.
She reads aloud as he carefully tries not to burn his tongue
and gazes out the window.
She loves him like I love mine.
in that careful way of
The tables are so close together
people get pinned in corners.
I’m hit in the head with a jacket sleeve,
no apology needed,
*Photo courtsey of flickr: verseguru