Conception

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?’