A well-rehearsed dance,
the waltzing waitress tosses The Times
on table 1 as if she’ll actually finish
the Sunday crossword this morning.
She won’t.
Grease lined lights flicker on one
by one.
Like spotlights on a stage.
It’s show time.
Twostepping while taking down chairs,
she flows to the rhythm of ritual,
across a worn checkered dancefloor.
No applause.
In a dining room of Astaire’s and Rogers
she is the coffee choreographer.
Pirouetting to the ***,
then a sidestep, quick! Quick!
Slow.
Warming up now, she stretches.
Switching on the metal machinery.
It grinds and growls as if it prefers
decaf.
Rings from rusted bells
hanging from the door chime
to the beat. This is her
cue.
