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Waiting Table in the Caribbean
by Kay Kidde
Jasmine grew up over there, in the sunlit valley
Of that slow mountain
That lies long on this prowling beast, the ocean.
Marsh mallow roses spring up in those jungle island hills.
Her father is long gone. Just up and drowned, poor scrawny guy.
And her mother died last year, stoic, feisty, warm.
Her dapper Jim has cut out, too, on some tramp trawler
Going somewhere. They had planned to make her seaside
shack a coffee shop.
She serves the champagne breakfast
At this three-star beach resort, across that old surprise.
the Lilac sea.
On this island that reflects her own.
She rarely looks across the innocent, brutal waves.
She isn’t letting on that back pains from these trays
Or that her rent is overdue. Three weeks.
One of the guests, from New York,
In his Ralph Lauren shirt, his orange shoes,
Beats a drum on the table with his knife.
He’s been waiting for his coffee half an hour now
Goddamnit.
Jasmine heads for the kitchen yet again.
The cook was late, not she.
She does look over this time to her island
Through the gnarled old grape tree, past the throbbing, secret
swells.
She tries in vain to think Jim home.
If she starts up that shop herself, the coffee would be on time.
She brings the now brewed coffee to the man. Who claps.
She once more turns a wince
Into a gracious memory of her smile.