A Long Coffee

A Long Coffee

Hands clasped round her coffee mug,

She sits, but rarely drinking,

Staring into middle distance,

Detached, distracted, thinking.

In front of her the sugar sachets:

Three of white, and three of brown,

Placed in defensive formation,

Mirror of her worried frown.

Each drink maybe lasts an hour,

While she loiters and she lingers,

Waiting for the hours just to pass her by,

Teaspoon twirled in twisting fingers.

Alerted by the door, she glances up,

Checking the face of every stranger,

Then sinking back into her reveries,

Relieved she’s not in any danger.

She has precious little money,

So there’s neither cakes or biscuits to choose.

She’s read the newspapers through and through,

Waded through the gossip-column news.

It’s just something else to pass the time,

It’s the same thing every boring day,

And, with a tacit understanding,

The manager now just lets her stay.

He doesn’t want to get involved,

And, although she’s never said so,

He can see how she’s likely fixed,

That she has nowhere else to go.

She’s anonymous, a total no-one,

A cipher, a shadow, never making sound,

Avoiding any lasting eye-contact,

Blending with the faceless back-ground.

Making patterns on the table,

The same routine, killing off the dead time,

Reflecting on her empty life,

As if being friendless were a sort of crime.

She stares out through the window,

Watching the world as it wanders past.

Then buys yet another coffee,

To see how long she can make it last.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016