Change of Plans

For some reason, the coffeeshop was closed
early on a cold and misty Saturday night.

Isabel was riding her bicycle there but the chain
popped off every half block she pedaled and I
pulled and rolled the chain over the gear again
and tried to keep my oily fingers off of my pants.

She was walking beside me when we stopped
in front of the shop. I held her bike over
my back, the seat on my shoulder blade, and stared
at the door looking for a sign explaining why.

Inside, the barista worked in the dark cafe
in a bright cell behind the bar. The tables
and chairs seemed to give a tired gray light
they'd absorbed from the well-lit business hours.

He never saw us standing there on the sidewalk.
He almost danced between the sink and the bar,
bobbing and turning with a rag in his hand.
He looked like a dream about to disappear.

I told Isabel we needed to take her bike home.
We didn't even go inside, just tossed it in.
We walked back downtown, where nothing was open,
noone was driving, and I followed my daughter wherever.