Bob Kimmerling | + Follow Poet |
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The Waitress

We came walking blind bends at dusk, 
An overhanging fig picked fresh.
No pavements, just a nervous trust 
that drivers would skirt our single line.

Hugging the roadside with torches lit, 
Phones swung glowing to the ground 
At each arm's stride, hunger growing. 
Alkina's Taverna above the bend ahead 

Bids we run the road blind
To steeply climb twenty steps
And find our table for four, 
On the higher terrace for a change.

Views of Mouse Island below, 
Still glimpsing the white monastery 
In evening's final fade and glow. 
Left to the blue hazed mountains

Of Albania, somewhere joined to Greece, 
From where the morning sun rises in nine 
And a half hours. Distant lights sprinkle
Their shine on the sea. The evening air

Is warm. A cicada telephones its rubbed 
Ring in the olives. Or are there two? 
Half a litre of Retsina comes cold, clouding 
The green bottle glass with evening dew, 

And with your warm modesty, 
Hoping we enjoy. It's not to everyone's taste 
Bearing its name only in Greece. 
But it is right to drink between the pines. 

This bottle is the best, and so it is.
Your voice is kind, with a smile, 
Seen despite the mask, and thirty years 
of waiting at the terrace tables.

Fifty ..sixty years old? Hard to tell 
Until we talk of your leaving Corfu 
When you were eight. The family followed 
Your father to Queens, but at twenty two 

You came home again from New York, 
Not kicking the move or sulking in young 
Years, though there was excitement, and life. 
You knew in going that you must come

Again one day. It was too late to become 
An American citizen. Your passport had just
Arrived but you needed another full 
Year to validate. Perhaps for the best.

You came back to Corfu, had your 
Daughters young and with your husband
Alkina was begun. Seven days a week,
Plus housework in between. 

No holidays this year but maybe a week 
At Christmas to visit your daughter in Athens.
Maybe. But the season had been so short. 
The two cats had become yours 

And were well, not scraggy and fleed 
Like so many that looked up in hope towards 
The tables. The elephant beans and fried 
Peppers, moussaka and lamb cuts

All shared with salad and fries, 
Tomatoes with cucumber. The
Ingredients in the beans? We tried
To guess, but you were asked. Cloves 

Was one, red peppers and tomato, 
Pureed and fresh, and ground black pepper.
We requested another retsina, and to
Keep the green bottles. You offered a bag.

We talked, Interrupted by the chef, 
From a far table. Finished for the evening, 
Your husband? A few short words from his chair,
Directed, not cross, but you neglected

To serve the other diner, and then you 
Came again to talk. Were you in trouble 
For spending time with us? No. The O 
Was Long, and your smile not broken.

We fell in love with your food and your
Gentle spirit. We hoped to see you again, 
Next year, but I don't remember 
That we asked you your name,

Or gave you ours. Such was your unfamiliar
Intimacy, your warm connection that 
Bathed us, and a thousand other visitors 
Beside, still fresh, still clear, 

Without a hint of stirring sediment, 
Your Smile still surrounding you
Like the dew on the bottle of retsina.

Copyright © Bob Kimmerling | Year Posted 2020

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