Miss Havisham

I call her Miss Havisham
Not to her face
We’ve never exchanged more than a few words
Good evening
Good morning
Lovely weather

She comes in very night
Sits at the same table
Coffee, regular
Rye toast
The waitress hollers to the kitchen
Whiskey down!
And Miss Havisham smiles at the secret code of diners

When the toast comes, sliced on the diagonal
Dripping with butter
The waitress hots up her coffee, asks
Anything else, hon?
Every night, Miss Havisham says the same thing
No, I’m good, thank you so much.

She sits, looking out the window
Lifts her cup to drink, surprised that it is empty
The waitress hurries over to refill the cup
Leaves a small pitcher of cream on the table
And a donut
On the house, hon, enjoy!

Miss Havisham smiles, takes a small bite

Staring out the window
Watching the cars buses bicycles
Bouncing down the avenue
Their lights flickering in the dark
Sometimes making the windows opaque
The street lights get brighter
The clock over the griddle reads 11:37
Miss Havisham sighs, puts on her sweater
Leaves a generous tip under the coffee cup
Opens the door to the dark alone
Disappears around the corner
Every night the same
Her shoes are down at the heels
Her sweater has pills
Her nails, poking through her gloves, are bare
The bills she left are crumpled singles, and coins

Good night, Miss Havisham
See you tomorrow, God willing
See you tomorrow