Seventh and (for now) final in the series.  I never actually gave this poem a title.  I wrote it in high school, drawing inspiration from a scene I saw while sitting at a coffee shop’s outdoor table in Downtown Chico (back when I drank coffee).  It’s not as “sophisticated-sounding” as some of my other poems might be (well, I can hope), but it happens to be one of my favorites.


He sits outside the coffee shop,
Watching passengers in strange vehicles go by.
This is his peace.

He glances back, hearing a strange noise.
He still wears his apron
Because he never knows who the next customer will be.
He goes on watching.

He is void to his own thoughts.
He knows only his work and the street.

He awaits tomorrow,
It continues.
This is his life.

Others have been here before him.
Others have served before him.
He knows not that the servant is highest,
Yet…he knows servitude.

His day is lit by the helping of others.

Someday a new job,
A new place.
Some fortune awaits him.

A day goes by,
Two years go by,
A new job, new life.

When he is there,
He’ll know what he had.
Until then, he waits.

2 thoughts on “Servitude

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