Shaking off a dripping, deep autumn fog,
I enter.
The dining room is nearly silent:
No talk-television
No talk-jocks
No Muzak.
Just soft, sweet percolation
And, perhaps, the whisking of huevos.
The waitress calls me ‘sweetie.’
I call for ‘the usual.’
Giggles
– this being my first visit –
and banter.
The kitchen:
Clean, orderly.
Giant man with a subtle smile:
"¿Qué está tomando?"
head tilting forward.
“Esto es habitual.”
Lilting, hints of an aria.
“ —¡Pero si nunca lo habíamos visto! ¡Es nuevo!”
Basso profundo.
Melodious, harmonious, enchanting laughter
– a Julio Iglesias-Maria Callas duet sans Julio and Maria –
begetting thoughts of daisy fields in spring,
and fair weather clouds,
and meadowlark lyric.
And warmth.
Dispatch from a world
– or at least a season –
dreams away.
(My copy of The Times has slipped to the floor.)
Breakfast arrives:
“Here ya go, sweetie.”
Spanish eyes twinkle.
‘The usual:’
Omelet, hashbrowns, rye toast.
Perfect this bone-chilled Saturday.
Command of two languages?
More perfect, any day.
© 2025
Church of the Open Road Press
