Grey-hair-and-tweed pulls bits off his burger
throws them out for feathered thieves.

I drip dressing on my skirt as I shoo.

Man in Suit crams a coffee cup in the bin
marked Glass and plastic only. He smiles.

We all do. Bonus sun just when we’d blown
dust off our office heaters, stray hairs from our coats.

Grass imprints disorder on our bare hands.

Inside, the barista is percussionist

crash-cymbal saucers, glockenspiel laid out

or perhaps conductor – back to the crowd
orchestrating lunch.  Rendering sound,

pace through gentle gesture or furious demand.
Pressure of bow, force of breath

 – imbue, extract – intensity of stare.

This is a cafe poem! I’m a bit slow off the mark, but you can probably still buy a book of cafe poems here.