He comes on wet Tuesdays to the diner
in the fall. Weary-eyed, hungry and drenched
by September rains, he always orders
the same thing. "Biscuits and gravy, ma'am. Please."
Polite to a fault and so damn handsome
my hands shake when I pour him his coffee.
I serve it black and piping hot. Coffee
warms his hands and belly; In this diner
hospitality's the rule. A handsome
plate of grits and buttermilk biscuits drenched
in sausage gravy steams. It wants to please
him; we all do. Whatever he orders
on damp lonely nights I'll serve. He orders
only biscuits, gravy and hot coffee,
nothing off the menu. I'd like to please
him wriggling on the hard tiled diner
floor till we cry out as one. Hot and drenched
with butter from my biscuit. The handsome
boys used to follow me home. The handsome
boys are all long gone. Now, I take orders.
I'm getting old. And my polite, rain drenched
autumn patron notices his coffee
more than me. I'm just a townie diner
waitress. Local color. Eager to please.
And it's beneath me to beg, to say, "please
take me away from this dead town, handsome."
Rainy tuesdays he comes in the diner
thirsty. A man like that don't take orders;
not from the once-girl who pours his coffee.
Even if he's polite and cold and drenched.
He comes in from the falling fall rain drenched
because he can. And when he asks me, "Please,
when you've a moment, refill my coffee?"
it's not to win my favor. The handsome
man is used to having all his orders
obeyed. He hides from home in this diner.
Winter's coming. My drenched man, (so handsome)
won't be stopping by for diner coffee.
Someone else please him, I'm through with orders.