Cafe

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The sun beams like spring

The sun beams like spring

Sparrows not so patiently wait

For animals to leave egg yolk on the table

Coffee stains on Old news, flaps in the wind

 

A voice in the garden café speaks

Red wine lips laugh about daily politics

The tourist looks on, she’s not sure

What planet she has flown to

 

The scent of the food lands before the plate

A mixture of colours and textures

Could this be art in an alternative universe?

Where Picasso was a chef

 

The palate expands

Eyes pick up the blurry fork and knife

Try to make sense of the beautiful mess

The bodies about to digest

 

Even the glass of water sparkles with life

In New Lazy Land,

Last night’s blues melt away into

Day light butter

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