Thursday, 31 January 2013


I walk into a café’s mouth
and wander lonely as a soul
amongst the faces; people laugh
and grin and point at purple sea and
mountains on the wall.

In here, ice cream; knickerbocker
glory; outside, snails are sliming in the wet
and, as I gaze, a waiter (‘Peter’ on his name badge) says
‘It’s not self-service,’ wafts a menu in his hand
‘what’ll you get?’

1 comment:

  1. This poem makes me smile -- I can see the scene perfectly!