Free-verse Poem

“At 6:30 We’re Open”

I don’t know why I
stopped and held my breath.
No one
could hear
me singing to myself.
My doors were still
closed and no one could
get in to hear me. But
my heart was still
for
a moment.
A moment.
My work arrested, my mind
at rest.
I put the plastic wrap down;
I was mid-
muffin in my morning wrapping
routine.
Routine.
The place
was clean and quiet.
I was alone.
The front door
was locked.
As if someone would try
to come in, I thought, while
I stared
at the muffins and listened
to
the hissing sound of dark roast
being brewed across the
counter, with some
dastardly intent, malevolent, bent
on stealing
my muffins or other breakfast
goodies.
Sure, there’s cash in the
register that
could be had—but
who robs a store before
it makes
any money for
the day?
The day.
He
can rob me
when the door’s unlocked and
I’m ready
to let him in
later.
Later.
No one would come
to the door for
another thirty minutes, at least.
I knew who to
expect and what I would
do to
make his
morning “just so.”
He didn’t like to drink
drip brew
or any of the plain-Jane coffee.
He was a cappuccino
man: he’d call for a cappuccino
and a scone—to take
the mundane work of wrapping
muffins off my mind
and leave the stillness
of the early morning
behind.
Behind.
Behind me on the
counter was my Chaucer.
I thought I
could pick him up and give
him a listen instead
of doing this chore.
The cappuccino man
wouldn’t come until I was ready for him,
until I
unlocked
my door.
What if I hadn’t
finished
wrapping the muffins, never unlocked
the door?
Would it be a move I’d have regretted
forever?
Forever.