Conversation with the Cafe (Prose-poetry)

I wander into Cafe dream-like:
surreal, submerging, transitional -
the ever changing passengers on patios,
or waitresses in their bloom
ever floating, ever changing,
all poured into a Midsummer's night dream
of intervening fantasies
(oh bittersweet reality)

The waitress:
tanned, slender
masked with mascaras and bracelets
slowly serving that tray of food
in their nightmares of never-ending circulation
drags on, drags on, drags on
stares plasters itself towards her,
yet she remains in a languid posture
continually serving in her tempting apron
but she,
    glimpses like a caged bird
in mysterious looks towards somewhere
searching,
      for all things missed.

Or the chef:
blank, scarred
filled with tears of nothingness
he is the Priest in the rituals of food:
slicing meat into corpses of blood;
vegetables cut like a dissected victim
presented to Greed's sacrificial feast
scuffled, worn-out
he no longer takes pleasure in this art of murder,
but rather, drowned into nihilism

And you:
slurping sips of red wine,
licking pieces of pasta - so delicately
in your blissful emblem
taking my eccentricities on to a toll,
(secretly laughing at my radical persona)
cradling me into your pools of calmness

so slowly, locking me into a confined identity
so slowly, lecturing me into the structural needs of life
so slowly, showering me into practicalities