Cafe Noir

The aging blonde with the paperback
doesn’t look up from her cappuccino.
A finger flickers for a moment;
her hand rests on a page. Just so.

The waitress smiles as she swipes my Visa,
updates her records, slices cake,
sweeps crumbs into small containers,
checks my knife for DNA.

This is it. The man with the moustache
scans a paper, adjusts his hair,
signals to a young barista.
I shift my chair.

The blonde takes something from a handbag,
mumbles as she powders skin.
My ears strain to decipher phrases
as baby buggies hem me in.

I make it through the nearest exit,
close the door, accept defeat,
feel the strop of cut-throat wind,
the lonely street.