Morning Cafe
The red leatherette like frozen waves
in a sea of coffee'd air
Cold, plump so early,
there's Formica caught in its glare
Filling slowly with private dreams
while lunch time salad waits
coffee, sweetened, creamed
croissants slipped on plates
If I owned a monochromatic camera
I'd watch the procession of the phoney
Some days it would make a difference
some days it might feel lonely
The door opens like a grave
allows in the stabbing cold
The young not bothered much,
unlike the weak and old
See one is talking the other waits
to say something pertinacious
One is waiting while the other talks
ignoring a crash of dishes
“Would you like a refill sir”
No honesty not even there
All the sugar in the world,
won't change her blank dead stare
In the corner an old man sits
newspaper shakes in dark annoyance
The headlines spoke of eastern dead
while he fights arthritis
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