Sipping bitter coffee it’s the lunchtime rush,
The faded plastic table cloth bears morning scars.
A chess board for the bored, sale weary shoppers,
Salt is pawn to mustards king, game abandoned
To the rind rimmed plate.
A girl enters, loud in her pregnancy, with two
In a buggy, snot proud and hungry they squall.
Hair tight back, face worn by the dole.
She rams my table and glares, I mumble sorry
Mr cheap suit shouts instructions into his phone as
A couple of chippies brag of the night.
The gnarly old busker parks his bass drum,
Orders apple pie, from the fly blow chiller,
Too cold for wasps.
The smell of fresh shit catches the nose,
She holds the child up like a trophy to show.
Then turning she puts it back in the pram asking
‘Have you done a poopy in your nap nap? ’
I drain the last dropp grimace and leave.