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.
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