--David YezziCafé Future
The bunting they put out for the grand opening
never got put away, so every day
looks as if it might be opening day.
You inquire if Café Future carries pie,
and sure enough it’s right there on the menu.
A piece of rhubarb and black coffee, please.
The pie tastes like you’d hoped it would, but sweeter.
And though you’re wary of newfangledness,
you’ve never had a piece of pie this good.
You think you’ll make the Future your new place.
The long counter’s reflected in plate glass,
where sunlight pours in from the parking lot,
and the guy who’s looking back at you is you
and not quite you. The morning rush is over.
The chrome gleams with a perfect gleaminess.
The waitress’s smile lets you know she agrees.
It makes you want to stay and eat more pie.
She comes by, young-looking, like her own daughter,
and whisks your plate away. Another slice.
I know I really shouldn’t. Just one more.
That’s fine with her, she says. She’s on a double
and happy to bring you pie all day long.
(The poem first appeared in smithsonian.com. By permission of the author here.)