SpiesShe is raining behind sunglasses
people watching to pass the time.
The man in the café could be a spy
he has a ginger coloured moustache,
hugs his mug of foaming brew
obscuring his face with the steam.
The lady behind the counter
was once a Russian ballet dancer.
She is sure, watching the
pirouette as croissants pivot on plates
and those impersonal little packs
of confiture thrown haphazardly.
She watches the desultory shoppers
through the window, little streams
of water running through
the sweated glass leaving
rivers and rivulets to mingle
with the grease from
overindulged pooches that
old ladies smooch and coo over
feeding little bijou crumbs.
The man shifts, distributing weight
on a faux leather couchette
pinching the dimples, she is sure
he is a spy, he carries an air
of menace and his faded suit
has the look of distressed fabrics
artificially made to look old before time.
Yes, he waxes and wanes his 'tache
that has seen better days
as if all the moths were gathered
on some seedy street corner
as casually resting his hand on a hilt,
swivelling and turning
an anorexic cat on stilts.
Perhaps Madame Hexagovich
and the spy are in cahoots,
slipping unknown substances
into government official pockets,
as spiriting up the spiral stairway
her former ballerina grace
shall order to Manuel below,
café noir for two my dear
and a covert van from around the corner
its windows blackened will reverse
as ginger and Madam Hexacovich
converse, exchanging currency.
She is people watching as a
distilled sun tries to burn the morning mist,
her glasses hold tears in the rims
and the trim on a checkered cloth
thinks of crisscross lives
and pantomime of star crossed lovers
and men in shades hastily
dropping little sachets of poison
into frothing coffees in a
seemingly ordinary, everyday café.
Poetry by Elle
Read 369 times
Written on 2016-12-11 at 13:16
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