The Cafe

The Cafe In my favourite café, the one where nobody asks my name, or who I am, or try to sell me their postcards, or the latest shazam! I sit quiet, and write and make believe, and sometimes watch the flies, being, the flies on the wall, and wonder what it’s like to be that small, with compound eyes and a long proboscis… I’ll never know. But today outside, lies my muse, a rusty old motorbike, a step through, from the old days, red with a tin, cream trim. Pigs on the back today? Maybe steel? Whatever pays the best; maybe a calf tomorrow? But it’s not mine…no; it’s the little guy’s, who lives across from me, in the house with the dogs and the parrot, and the green tin shutters. And the bird; the parrot, mimics and swears at passersby, who; turning, scowl, then walk on. And with the dogs, the parrot, the flies and the guy, who by the way is quite thin, I focus on the red and cream tin motorbike, and try and write therein.