Cafe Midwife

They slept keeping a light on in the back,
each tired refrigerator murmuring,
a child’s mouth speaking out of dreams
about the past day’s ramblings.

And when their aproned shopkeeper comes in,
to rouse each with the smell of coffee steam,
they light up like thoughts out of a smoky place
where memories live, cold and beyond our reach.

Beyond that hill, seen by a bustling girl
dressed in a waiter’s black, the patient lava
of every morning boils, a quiet orange.
Flushed and just showered, yesterdays’ orphaned daughter,

shouldering her purse. Slipping through the door
to wake the café’s present, she’s content.
Her events are rising like well-cooked bread,
the sun crawls in as if by her consent.