Her Touch

                        Her Touch

               There is a young lady
                who sets the tables
              with the sun rising off
                  her right shoulder.

          A lovely table cloth arrives,
      is fanned out and settled down,
               then slowly slid into
                the proper position.
         The condiments are placed,
            each at the end of an arc
             made balletic by an arm
                      from a torso
                already turning to go.

           The chairs are assembled
            and a quorum is reached.
         Before the customers arrive,
                  a small bouquet,
               no bigger than a fist
              but altogether kinder,
          alights adjacent the napkins,
 flanked by monsieurs salt and pepper,
           and she is off, pirouetting
              to tend to other tables,
              unadorned but eagerly
                  awaiting her touch.