The buffet closes at nine and it’s eight-forty-three,
the manager’s doing his rounds and looking at me,
with the polite but pointed face of a man who knows,
that I’ve been here since six and the evening shows,
no sign of concluding from my specific booth,
the plates stacked and the evening’s honest truth,
is that I’m going to need one final run at the line,
before the steam trays go dark and the evening’s fine.
I time the approach for eight-fifty-five,
the last legitimate trip while the trays are alive,
with the heat and the food of the closing hour right,
I load the plate with the deliberate weight of the night,
the brisket that’s been going since the opening bell,
is at its peak of the falling-apart, I can tell,
by the way it surrenders to the tongs without a fight,
closing time at the buffet is the sweetest bite.
Closing time at the buffet, the last legitimate run,
closing time at the buffet, the evening’s almost done,
but the trays are still serving and the hot lamp’s on,
closing time at the buffet before the food is gone,
closing time at the buffet, eight-fifty-five approach,
closing time at the buffet, nobody’s going to coach,
me out of the final plate of the evening’s long campaign,
closing time at the buffet, beauty in the refrain.
I take the full final plate back to my corner booth,
and eat it with the contemplative and honest truth,
of a man who’s spent three hours in the company of food,
and found it excellent in every conceivable mood,
the brisket falls apart exactly as I said it would,
the mac and cheese is still warm enough, and good,
the cornbread’s getting dry but that’s the evening’s price,
closing time at the buffet is still very nice.
The manager comes by at nine with the closing look,
he says, sir, we’re closed, and I close the book,
of the evening with the final forkful going in,
I wipe my face and pull my wallet and begin,
the accounting of the evening and the thirty-dollar price,
for three hours of the all-you-can-eat and I advise,
the manager that his brisket is the best I’ve had,
closing time at the buffet never feels that bad.
I walk out to the parking lot at five past nine,
moving with the weight of the thoroughly alive,
and fed and satisfied man in the cooling air,
the buffet’s lights going off somewhere behind there,
the dinner crowd already gone and me the last to leave,
the closing time at the buffet is the thing I most believe,
in, the final plate at the closing hour’s right,
closing time at the buffet is the best way to close the night.