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?’
This poem makes me smile -- I can see the scene perfectly!
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