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.