Cafe

The cafe opens
At seven each morning
I am usually there as the lights
Go on sipping a cup of hot tea with
Milk but nothing else as I read my
Book people watch and observe
The rhythms of the cafe to see
The pattern of the place the
Odor of fried bacon eggs
The pineapple ringed
Breakfast combos
But amid all sorts
Of exotic dishes
And coffee
Blends
Not
Even
One biscuit
With sausage
Gravy and bacon,
No chicken fried
Steak nor root
Beer float
With
Bluebell
Ice cream.
Southern California
Is a paradise of
Culinary treats
But not the
Sins I so
Miss.