The Waiters Of Les Deux Magots

In white aprons like tablecloths
fitted around their waists
they swish and dart so seamlessly
among the sprawl of sidewalk
tables with a view of the medieval
stone church of St. Germain and the wide
tree-arched boulevard alive with Parisians
and tourists, a chaos of buses and cars.
And I think: so this is their profession, these men
with grey at their temples, carved lines in their brows.
I wonder how many years they have served this way,
placing upon the round surface this
creme cafe, this cafe noir
like small completed masterpieces
as pigeons scoot but never dare
get too near their gliding feet.