At the moment the night sky pales in the east
One man walks beneath the yellow lights of the train station
He wears a cap and moves toward the depot
Wooden, ancient, narrow and long
The old sign above the door, “Green Cove”
As if he were of its time, of its year.
In the morning coffeehouse the air is sweet
With the fragrances of strong brew espresso
And cinnamon and biscuits from the oven.
And newspapers from cities far away.
“Do you have eggs,” I ask
Though they are not on the chalkboard
With the long list of this bagel and that biscuit
“We do,” she says. “How do you want ‘em?”
In an adjoining room there are shelves
Of books by local authors
Hardbacks of local and regional craft
Paperbacks of bible lessons.
Outside a new Audi crushes the gravel in the parking lot
Women at a high table look through the window
And know the driver, the new arrival.