A young woman in a China cotton dress,
with slender brown legs, flashing eyes,
took my order for one mochaccino, extra froth.
Bats flitted about high up in the pines
overhead; my face was lit up
by the iron table's single oil candle,
my features flickering
as I waited for the white mug of coffee to arrive.
Soon it did, and the waitress came with
extra napkins too, repeated my order
and asked if I needed anything else.
"No, thanks" I announced brightly,
not wanting it to appear that I had expected
to be served by a woman.
Next there was a huge clashing of glass bottles
into recycling bins in the darkness
behind the bar across the street.
I had to flag down my waitress and ask her for a spoon.