Coffee Tymes and the Morning Counter

Lyrics

Six AM. The lights of the Toco Hill Shopping Center
just coming on.
But in here, the coffee's been brewing for an hour.

The counter at Coffee Tymes has a geography.
A worn spot by the register where the paperboys paid.
A crack in the Formica near the third stool,
looks like the South Fork of Peachtree Creek.
I fold the Atlanta Journal-Constitution just so.
Business section first.
Brenda sees me, nods.
The black coffee arrives before I ask.
A ritual older than some of the houses on LaVista.

This is the unofficial morning meeting.
The civic heartbeat in a little strip-mall room.
No minutes taken, no motions passed.
Just the quiet accounting of a neighborhood,
over coffee, at the counter at Coffee Tymes.

Mr. Shapiro from the hardware store,
talking lumber prices over two eggs, over easy.
Two residents from Emory, still in their scrubs,
faces tired, talking about a bypass from last night.
A table of ladies who were just at Beth Jacob,
their conversation a low, happy hum.
Brenda moves between them all, a silver pot in her hand,
filling cups, remembering who takes cream.

This is the unofficial morning meeting.
The civic heartbeat in a little strip-mall room.
No minutes taken, no motions passed.
Just the quiet accounting of a neighborhood,
over coffee, at the counter at Coffee Tymes.

How many headlines have been read at this counter?
Carters and Reagans and Bushes and Clintons.
The Braves winning it all in 1995.
The city getting the Olympics.
All of it folded and creased right here,
next to a pool of spilled sugar.
The world happens out there.
We absorb it in here,
one page turn, one refill at a time.

I leave two dollars under the empty mug.
Brenda just nods.
The bell on the door jingles behind me.
The sun is up over the Kroger now.
The counter is still there.
Waiting for tomorrow's news.