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Maggie's Le Cafe
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| I look over the
top of my paper past parked cars, see the coffee shop and the time-worn keeper wobble as she opens the green and brown striped awning to start a rain-damp day. A marquee unfurls as if it is some standard to be saluted, piped out by the fife like squeak of the crank as it turns and plays its strident anthem through the morning mist, Maggie's Le Cafe. Beside an open doorway, yellowish letters arch across the latticed window; a beacon to each patron that lumbers in for their cappuccino mocha with froth heaped above the rim. White linen cloths drape over round tables near the edge of the street. Reflections in the wet walk glow in the gray cityscape as the siren smell of fresh coffee lures every passer by. Wraith like aromas curl on the street air, spirit down to where I lean against the newsstand wall to read my Daily Chronicle; I breathe the moment as the smell arrives. It's so warm, so sweet, and so clean in the early air I can never resist a cup. |
| John H. Freeman |
Copyright © 2001