Changeling at Brunch

Our fellow citizens of Eastern
come after church on Sunday
for bacon, eggs and cushions,
all serious their faces
lined with the seriousness of
what they want; and the shining
instruments of their escape
wait for them on the edge
of the concrete ribbon.

They sit in rows
around the brunch buffet.

The server is like
a butterfly recently risen
from a chrysalis, face still
smooth and moist. But inside
metamorphizes a banker
and a merchant, a local ma and pa.
Her face contains the balding
bureaucrat, the inside sales consultant
putting in long days.