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ROB HACK

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Sunday morning, city cafe

 

Busy place. Alone with coffee, music, glances.

People on the pavement pass, their shadows

meet.  Strutting pigeons, tossed crumbs.

 

A fan belt squeal, indicator and high revs, the

driver tousles her hair in the mirror, reversing.

 

A jogger slows to a walk in shiny seventies shorts,

wafts past hands on his head.

 

Sunlight squares on the table top from

the trellis behind, its bald clematis clings to life

like a Soviet poet in Siberia.

 

A woman, very well dressed, successful? I recognise

from somewhere sometime.

She looks over, gets up. I lift my newspaper, keep still.

In the window reflection I see her turn back and behind a newspaper

a man who is not well dressed, hair turning grey, stares back.

 

 

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