Warped Cafe'

His stove-pipe hat had a clean whistle
as he entered the room
of her mechanisms.

Her kitchen was steaming mad,
plum-pudding on the boil
gears unloosing themselves
in her deep furnace.
She only saw him through
her foggy goggles’ fume.

Only men with jet packs
were allowed to jangle her
heavy ring of keys
to unlatch her metal bindings
under her bustles
and petticoats

as she piped from hour to hour,
reversing the clocks at her whim
brewing tea at her fancy as she
mounted her flying teapot and took off
at boiling point.

Resetting the clocks to start
time expanded and was lost
hands spinning in the effluvial vapor
as the man sat at the counter
and the fair maiden served him coffee,
scalding hot.