I love to sit in cafés,
And watch the world go by,
With my cup of coffee,
Which is not in short supply.
I imagine small scenarios,
For people going past,
Painter, mother, district nurse,
The odd iconoclast.
Over there, a little boy,
Has something in his shoe,
And is trying to dislodge it,
Jumping like a kangaroo.
There’s a tall guy in a pinstripe,
Newspaper tightly furled,
He’s an air of determination,
As if he’s challenging the world.
And there are two young mothers,
Peering in the butcher’s shop,
Deciding what to eat tonight,
A sausage or a chop.
There’s a girl who’s trying to canvass,
For council membership,
But people see the clipboard,
And all give her the sideslip.
A charity fundraiser,
From Mencap or some such,
Rattles his plastic bucket,
And people give – even if it isn’t much.
I think that those two over there,
With their heads together,
Are planning what to do in case
Of ghastly, rubbish weather.
There’s an old guy in his Sunday best,
Pinhole in his button,
Off to meet some favoured belle,
Who’s clearly lamb not mutton*!
And over on the wooden bench,
There’s a guy with his guitar,
Singing songs of broken hearts,
A rather gloomy repertoire.
It’s a tad intoxicating,
This world of observation,
As I try to guess the content of
Some fervent conversation!
Yes, there’s something quite seductive,
About a coffee or a tea,
And an open book in which to write
Other’s lives vicariously.

*”A mutton dressed as lamb” is a rather unkind expression to describe people of a certain age who present themselves or dress in clothes that are more appropriate to someone much younger.