"One Coffee . . . Black"

 

"One Coffee . . . Black"

Jan 19 2024

I am a purist.

No milk or sugar.

No caramel flavour.

No fussy sprinkles

or faux whipped cream.

No fancy moniker

or pretentious concoction,

just “one coffee, please”

nothing more.

Hot

    . . . black

            . . . strong

in a heavy diner mug,

medium roast

dripped fresh.

And — of course — “not to go”;

because sipped through a lid

from a thin paper cup

does an injustice

to a premium brew.

The hustle and bustle

of a corner cafe,

poured

even before I can say

“the usual”.

A bottomless cup,

topped up

before it's half drunk,

no need to catch her eye.

And a wise-cracking waitress

who calls me “hon,”

has Dorothy

Dolores

or Debbie

embossed on the tag

on her ample breast;

big hair

and a bigger laugh,

swollen ankles or not.

The more politically correct server just wouldn't work here. A classic cafe -- all polished chrome, linoleum, and those spinny stools attached to the floor in front of a long counter -- calls for a waitress: a matronly lady with big hair and a badge bearing her first name pinned to the front of her uniform.