By HAZARD on 01/08/2008
The door bell rings as we enter in
The Vicarage Café, next to the gymn,
Where lace runs riot and plates mount walls
And the stifling heat cooks one and all.
Here beneath cast iron tables, handbags sprawl
over seasoned linoleum.
Brogues shuffle with boot and wellie,
the Gaberdeen macs whiff of petroleum.
The well-heeled here come in together,
for two Earl Grey pots and to show off sable.
Steamy windows mask the dripping weather,
Salt grains speckle the formica tables.
Gwyneth orders pink fondant fancies,
lemon curd tarts and cream éclairs.
The waitress serves in frock and pinny.
She’s far too young to net her hair.
Such golden curls has winsome Jenny,
Set free they’d tempt me to romance.
So I smile and nibble so very sweetly,
Yet would kiss her hard given half the chance.
The bell jars’ full of of shortbread fingers,
Glacé cherries sit on bakewell pies.
Dundee cake smells thick and treacly.
I gaze again into Jenny’s blue eyes
She flits behind with extra milk,
'Hot water sir? More Assam my love?'
I wait and flick the plastic menu.
Doesn’t she think me rather soave?
I perk my collar and tug my sleeve.
Smooth brylcreamed hair and rub my teeth.
She’s back to clear, then smiling leaves
The little bill in leather, sheathed.
I stroll to pay, but she’s not there.
Oh where, oh where’s my yellow hair?
With cigarette outside I spy
And tickets from Reggie to see Mcfly!
© By HAZARD On 1/8/2008 7:29:36 PM