She poured hot cofe,

and steam rose like a mountaincloud

beneath the morning dew.

Some folks came dressed in Sunday's best.

Others wore dreads, braids, dark shades,

high heels spit-shine shoes and

natural hair does.

From the kitchen, the smell of bacon beckons,

the taste buds of an old man who sat on a stool,

his lips locked, but never moving as the

waitress passed him by with Hotcakes, stacked

to the sky for all eyes to see.

"Good morning," she said, as we entered our

booth, wide-eyed, with healthy thighs

From good living and good loving.

As she winked, sirens screamed

by the window where we sat,

as if urging her on to say more.

"O, that's just the hospital across the way'.

she replied to young guest never seen before.

Side conversations ruled the air.

With indistinct dialect to burning ears,

Like toast left in a toaster too long.

These sounds engaged us all.

The biscuits are my best,

And you can get grits with your egs.

Come sit beside me, it's friendly

This is Wilson's on the corner of

Georgia and Avenues V:

In Washington D.C!