vision of a waitress

Something about here alone at the table feeling that all too familiar lost in the universe or a quiet small town café on a main drag somewhere out in America that defines me, and telling it to a coffee cup.  The sole patron of westward spaces. Here at the table where I vaguely remember being before in another familiar life.  And watch the movies play while family friends brothers and lovers come and go emptying and filling chairs in a time-lapse sequence.  Even see memories of me on the sepia screen, birthdays family Sundays Friday night ballgames and fancy date dinners, from somber goodbyes to excited celebrations all along the Table spectrum.  Where every original thought was ever concieved or scribbled, where every group of officers sat and discussed the mornign agenda, where every set of grey-haired women ever gathered on a Monday morning to reconfirm the doctrines of goodness and change, where every group of bearded intellectuals met promptly to parley on the metaphysical makeup of God and meaning, where every seeking individual ever mused upon the watershed.   And always somehow this table the constant in a world of variables.  See now the gone tablecloth over rough plastic table with three good legs and one seen better days; the gone steel/plush chair with foamy rip right down the center that screeks across the linoleum; and either in the dusky morning or the waning early evening always – on the road from west to east coming together; the sad triumphant triumverant of knife fork spoon hastily wrapped in synthetic napkin and rolled up next to the plate; the blinking fluorescent lights illuminating street signs license plates stop lights and famous framed dollar bills; the big hairy dark haired chef slapping cold eggs onto a sizzling frying pan in the back there, sprinkling this and that and sandwiching hot butter inbetween two triangles of processed white toast; and the meat - big sizzling sausages rolling around over hopping bacon jumping grease and thick ham slabs getting warm too; big coffee pots always a-brewing in eternal rotation decaf or non sugar spoon and creamer nine sugar packet types to choose from neatly.  Something to do with me here temporary and the gone motherly waitress destined to stay and offer eternal wayward kindness to all the passers-through.  See her coming my way now with a world of trouble on her brow and a load to bear,  the greatest American novel still yet (and always) unwritten is the story of her 42 ordinary years, and yet she brushing all these aside to smile and motherly flirt while proudly scooting loaded plate underneath my chin as for child and great big mug of steaming coffee with plastic coke glass of ice water cubes floating against each other in there.  “Anything else, hun?”  Leaves me alone with great anticipatory thoughts of food and open distant thoughts of the road what has been and what will around the bend.  And when it’s all said and done she exchanges me a check for the empty greased plates and cold quarter full coffee mug which now she cradles deftly on one arm back into the bowels of the kitchen.  I pay with crumpled cash and out the plastic door causing the bell to ring, into car or truck or van and back across the black tar pavement streams to rivers to freeways and always abiding the law of the yellow lines as if some safety there inbetween, headed home or otherwise.  And later tonight, out the very same plastic door where eventually my waitress (double shift today and another on the way) turns out the lights, hastily flips around the open/close sign, sweetly says goodnight to the last customer while stacking chairs on top of tables to sweep before walking home by streetlamp to fall asleep with tired hair down still apron'd in the living room chair and dream about the good old days and all the worrisome days to come.