the coffee house

along the narrow
stretch of sand and road
the sea oats
blow between
the thin pines
and scrub
brush thickly
tangled in dirt
and sand, a coffee
house appears,
once a fishing shack
perhaps, where men
could get their
hooks and lines,
their bait,
leaden weights
and other
assorted boating
needs, but now there
is espresso and hot
tea, and chocolate,
summer reading
upon the shelves
for when summer comes
again, a book on how to
filet a fish is not
far down from a grisham,
an old cheever, a brown.
and the two girls
behind the counter
pacing, thinking of
so much more of
when they can leave
as their nails
tap tap tap against
the machines.
you can see the clock
moving slowly
in their faces,
heavy and freckled
but pretty as only
girls can be at that
age. they wish you
with thin smiles a
happy holiday,
the bell ringing
behind you, over the
door as a december
breeze blows in,
goes out.