Saturday, 13 October 2012

In a Bishopsgate Cafe

In a Bishopsgate café

the man with

a rural complexion

loosened his

quilted jacket

and read a magazine

through a magnifying glass,

mother of pearl handle.

He set his phone

on the table

measuring an espresso

in steady gulps

and spoke

with an Irish accent

to someone-

a woman by his inflection-

on a train.

'I'll meet you on

the station steps.'

'Thank-you

for being on time.'

Pausing for a waitress

carrying soup,

he asked if

she could cope.

A girl with blue hair

discreetly ate food

bought somewhere else.

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