She  ...is the Goddess of my four-in-the-mornings
... is the Florence Nightingale of my debilitated wanderings.
...does not judge.
...simply pours as I ignore the menu.
...always returns just in time to top me off.
...wears that stained, pleated apron like Aphrodite wears the summer wind.
          (With that spittle-slick pencil
          Balanced so precariously behind her left ear)
She... renders quiet absolution, with creme, and sugar.