The Lost Cafe
Nostalgic already for something
lost just a few months ago,
that’s me, pining for an hour or so
back on the wide verandah
of the Fawkner Park tennis
pavilion - ‘Cafe Fawkner’
says its faded awning - lately,
but no longer, Sistas Cafe.
Admirable both, the sisters,
tall slim and smiling. Which was which
I never learned, even while
ordering one of the toasties
they’d named after themselves.
What were those names again? -
something East European.
One had a son called Harley -
his Dad no doubt a bikie.
When not at kindergarten
at the north edge of the pavilion
he’d sit at a corner table, quiet
with paper and coloured pens.
I’d leash my dog by the best
verandah possie, pay for coffee
and toastie, join the dog; together
we’d survey the park’s westward
prospect - high-fenced tennis courts
often the scene of coaching -
the younger the player the wilder
the hits. (Balls fell where later my dog
lurched and gripped his take-home gift.)
My snack and drink would arrive,
with one of those brilliant smiles.
Soon I’d feel the benefit
in mouth, stomach, and caffeine-
roused brain - the kids’ tennis
seemed somehow improved.
Beyond, through the grand trees,
I’d glimpse my new home,
one of those old flats I like
to tell you about. ‘Kia Ora’! -
Maori for hello and welcome -
here in Melbourne because
the cordial-factory tycoon
wanted flats for his staff.
Art deco? - ‘Streamline moderne’,
not bad for the 1930s!
Pity about the office blocks
on either side. My vantage point
on the sisters’ verandah put
all in green perspective.
Good to spend time here most days.
Till one morning - it’s locked!
Next, reopened - without food,
just coffee - sold me by a woman
neither slim nor tall nor smiling.
The sisters had done a bunk.
Well, an hour on the verandah
isn’t what it was. I’ve changed
my routine. Dog and I march
briskly past, holding ourselves in.
Elsewhere, without me, Harley may
continue his colouring-in.
Coffee and eponymous toasties -
shared privately by the lovely sisters.
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