how the mists rose,
bringing her to see it for the first time,
how the dawning in her eyes,
quick veiled, like the rolling of the fog,
how she ducked
almost hurtbut, fast recovering
ran her hand along the chrome
and polished metal and thought
of what to say.
She was soon
the beating heart
of the place, the cheer that rose up,
as the springed door shuttled
the early morning men in and out.
Matching her soft-soled tread
to the rhythm of the clock,
she could pour fast or gracious,
smiling over the mothers and their
small indulgent second cup.
she took her smile
from the perk, met the sun
as it rose above the shining silver
bullet of a building, rested only
in that soft, lazy hour
between the lunchtime trade
and the early bird suppers.
Counting out the days
in pancakes and lemon pies,
wearing thin as the pastel pink uniform,
dismissing the blue skies that chased
dream haze beyond the swinging doors.