My Five o’clock Coffee Shop Girl
She was my 5 o’clock coffee shop girl
And I never knew her name.
Every day she passed by
And sat in the same corner once again.
I saw her in summer in her tight fitting white jeans,
Reading Richard Bach.
And I saw her in autumn in her Scottish plaid skirt,
Holding Michael Crichton.
Then I saw her in winter in her bright red, hand-knit sweater.
Margaret Atwood was at her elbow.
And again in the spring with her leather shoulder bag with fringe
From which she pulled Dostoyevsky.
She was my 5 o’clock coffee shop girl
And I never knew her name.
5 o’clock was all we had and it only came once
day after day.