A Long Coffee
Hands clasped round her coffee mug,She sits, but rarely drinking,
Staring into middle distance,
Detached, distracted, thinking.
Before her lay the sugar sachets:
Three of white, and three of brown,
Placed in defensive formation,
Mirror of her worried frown.
Each drink lasts an hour, or more,
While she loiters and lingers,
Waiting for the hours to pass by,
Teaspoon twirled in twisting fingers.
Alerted by the door, she glances up,
Checking the face of every stranger,
Then sinking back to her reveries,
Relieved she’s not in any danger.
There’s little money left to spend,
No biscuits or muffins she can choose.
She’s read the newspapers through and through,
Waded through the national news.
It’s just something else to pass the time,
It’s the same routine every day.
And, with a tacit understanding,
The manager allowing her to stay.
He doesn’t want to get involved,
And, although she’s never said so,
He can see how she’s fixed,
That she’s got nowhere else to go.
She’s anonymous, a no-one,
A cipher, a shadow, not making sound,
Never making eye-contact,
Blending into the faceless back-ground.
Making patterns on the table,
The same ritual, killing extra time,
Reflecting on her empty life,
As if being friendless were any crime.
Buying yet another coffee,
Determined to make this one last.
She stares out through the window,
Watching the world, as it wanders past.
Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012
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