Opening Day

Small café at the bottom level

Of the historic district -

A red-brick run-about.

New, fat, hanging baskets

On the black lampposts -

A red, short newly divorced woman

Finally opened up her café.

Sweaty, exhausted and alone -

The percolating excitement of what

An opening day was.

All the design months in the making -

8 months into a loan and living in the ‘storm cellar’

On cheap pizza, cigarettes and a deflated air mattress.

5 AM – she kneads the dough for her rolls;

Preps the quiche and the cream cheese pastries -

5:30 AM – setting on the music,

Cleaning up the kitchen, folding rolled cloth napkins

Into something fancy and ridiculous;

6 AM roasting coffee, set up creamers, honey, and milk

With the first array of pastries in the center tray

And at 7 AM -

After a couple of smokes by the dumpster

Putting on a brand new tube of lipstick

And then offering cups and a pitcher of coffee to the

Homeless sleeping behind the Donair’s.

It was a slow morning – sure,

But it was her.

All hers.