Ode To a Bus Boy
He busses tables at the local coffee shop
where midnight poets pour there heart
out to the crowd of starved souls.
Hypnotizing them into metaphors and similies
and city singers cling to their
microphones calling out to the world
putting them in a trance between each verse.
A young woman enters the cafe
for her mid evening cup of tea.
Squeezing through the tiny spaces
between tables, slidding past the audience.
Finding her seat at the back of the house solitary.
The bus boy taking orders and watching
like a raven on the hunt.
Spiralling around tables and twisting through crowds.
His smooth movements like
an art for all to see.
He always watched her, but she never saw.
Every silent shudder,
quiet quirk and every other gesture.
She was a Goddess, something pure.
Like the fresh spring raindrops that
small children catch on their tongues,or
brisk morning air inhaled over a cup of coffee.
She smelled of the sunsets and lillies.
But it was pointless to him,
when would he ever get his chance
to infuse his senses
with the fragrance.
She an upper class American and him
well, he's a bus boy that was invisble to her,
below her social status, just plain out of her league
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