It is the same sky

It is the same sky

But from a different angle

The coffee tastes good

And there is a buzz in the air

But not from a bee

The honey is

Already on the table

And the ambience is

Specially prepared,

To capture

The life-long dedication

Of the passing trade.

The radio plays breakfast music,

As newborn’s,

In expensive strollers,

Sleep

Through the hubble-bubble

Of the cappuccino crowd,

Yet wake in the night

At the slightest sound.

Everything glows like new

And in many ways,

That is true,

But it is also me,

Looking at things

A little differently.

Sitting by the window

Writing through my reflection

In the lap top,

Finding it a strange distraction.

Laughing at the look

Of concentration,

Wondering what a sight

I might make,

To the walkers and talkers,

Who tarry awhile,

Over croissants and toast.

Or the working crew,

Who hate to queue

And just want a flat white,

And a light bite,

To eat on the run,

Whilst others

Rummage through

A mixed selection

Of hurriedly collected

Morning post,

In too much of a rush

To be read at home,

They open envelopes

With butter knives

And spread sunshine

Too thinly,

As their slice of life

Curls at the edges.

A final demand

Before the day has begun,

Is not a pun,

And maybe they should

Have left them lying

Where they fell,

But who can tell

What would be better

To come home too,

A floor full of worries

Or a clean slate,

With the bills all paid

And neatly stacked

Under a side plate.

Meetings arranged,

Contracts exchanged

In a coffee shop,

It gets the job done,

In the comfort of

A window seat,

Framed by the light of the sun.

What fun.