Afternoon.
It is almost the close of the quiet café–
The boy waiting waits for the ticking of time.
But the hope that he had for a smidgin of time
To himself after work is destroyed–
It’s splattered and spluttered
Like smashed avocado on Tables
And honey on hands.
As the time ticks to three
And closing proceedings were scheduled for two,
The teetering boy serves his tea–Table 3
Coos and calls for a mid-afternoon
Glass of wine–Table 8 beckons him
Telling him that they stole Table 9
For their wanting of space–the Table
That acted as bait to the people outside,
Who kept piling in as the waiter ran over
From far Table 4 to the door;
The hobbling, old-timer regulars
Walking as God surely does in his Heaven
Above, on the distant horizon, approaching,
A smile knowing gracing their faces,
A smile that forebodes that the boy
Will be bent–broken–bastardised
If he denies their dominion of 7–
The same Table 7 they hold as their own,
With the same cappuccino–hot–weak–
Sugars?–three!–little froth–choc-on-top–
Watered-down–sugar-ground alchemy–
The same cappuccino they’ve ordered
For god-knows-how-long, and if their lone Table’s
Not free, then the hand that they claim
In the ownership of the cafe’s rendered lame.
And Table 5’s calling again! The woman
Is stating her chicken’s alive, so he takes it
To cook ‘til its concrete inside,
And Table 6 stops him betwixt his ambitions
And 5, an order alive on flickering tongues–
He rushes to grab his device but the customers
Waiting outside menacingly approach,
Salaciously licking their lips
As the dripping drool drips down their chins–
“What is that?” Quoth the looters to he,
Who, biding his time between grave and shine
Was sentenced to life–to wait Table 1–
“An almond croissant!” The boy stares and smiles
At the menacing folks and the money they bring–
And soon as he ends his extortion
An old woman’s portion of some menu item
Is thrown to the floor in a fit of despair,
And tumbling chair-after-chair,
The boy finds the air on lone Table 8
Filled with hate–an onslaught–
A torrent of merciless hate
Sees his name stripped from fame
And his relatives sentenced to death
By the very deception of e’er loving him.
And through a torrential downpour
Of “Sorry!”, “My fault!”, and “Thanks for your time!”
His eyes wander quickly and quietly down–
Counting the number of tiles on the floor
And imagining each of them Tables:
Tables that never speak up
And allow him his closing.
Tables that ask for his name
And remember it thus,
Returning his smiles and
Allowing him freedom
To finish on time and
Work beyond wage.