As I walked out one evening
Into a small cafe,
A 49-year-old waitress
These words to me did say:
I see that you are a logger
And not just a common bum
For nobody but a logger
Stirs his coffee with his thumb.
And I see you don't shave your whiskers
From off your leathery hide.
You pound them in with a hammer
And chew them off inside.
And you have a lovely aroma
I haven't sniffed in years,
That comes from perspiration,
Tobacco juice and beer.
My lover was a logger,
A great big man named Rolf
And then he put down his chainsaw
The day he took up golf.
He became a developer
And wore designer clothes
And started using handkerchiefs
Whenever he blew his nose.
He gave up beer and whiskey
And then he didn't snore
And then I found I didn't
Respect him any more.
One he was a logger
Cutting trees that touched the sky.
When he became a jogger,
That's when I said goodbye.
And when I lost my lover
To this cafe I come
And sit and wait to meet a man
Who stirs his coffee with his thumb.
© Garrison Keillor 2003