Waitress at the Morpheme Cafe

Waitress

Outside stars are falling. They sizzle on the walk.

Inside the club, the diners meet with laughter and champagne

The waitress serves them fricassee, of coral reef and bones

The chairs are mummified pharoahs, the table is a globe

If you spin it at the right moment, on the perfect date

To the correct latitude, the top of the world comes off

And inside is a map.

It shows a hidden treasure, buried under sin

Inside a chest that severs your hands

If you don't have the key

Outside, the starfall increases. The waitress sees them die:

Stars on concrete road, by the dead whippet in a gutter

Inside, the diners scrunch the bones 

And call for more, and more

They eat leech soup and spill the mess

On napkins hanging off their chins

The guests all have smooth faces

Clothes sewn from silk and crepe de chine.

Their jewels flash and hang from necks

Made supple by a surgeon.

They leave no tip and demand a sweep-boy

To clear away the stars

And hail a taxi since their shoes are too tight.

They leave without another look.

Only the waitress stays behind 

To clear the plates and crumbs.

And in the kitchen, she feels in her pocket

For the key, the star-shaped key.