Four strangers and a shared fantasy in the Blue Cafe

The coward counts his sugar cubes,

Takes one, then two,

And then his spoon.

A gentle sip, and then another.

A soft and inoffensive light

Reflects in his coffee.

Outside it’s cold.

Outside it’s raining.

Rain on the windows of the Blue Café.

Mother tends her children.

Growing son, growing daughter,

Growing needs, growing wings.

Mother growing old.

A cup of tea, and shelter from the cold.

The faded shades of the Blue Café.

Brother sits and waits for me.

Or maybe you.

Or maybe someone else’s brother.

His cup is empty.

Maybe he will have another.

The crone writes birthday cards.

The birthdays of lovers long dead.

Not a word is shared.

No tip and no change spared.

Through the windows of the Blue Café,

They glance a dream, and share a fantasy.

A world.

A different lens.

Blood flowing,

Down gutters in gold paved streets.

Trees growing through the cracks,

Bearing ripe and poisoned fruit.

Fire eaters and harlequins.

There are dancers in the spires,

And knives write their scripture

In willing flesh.

This night of fire fades to day.

All eyes return to the blue café.

Mother turns away.

Brother simply waits.

The coward is unmoved and unsurprised,

Though a flame is dancing in his eyes.

The crone writes birthday cards

To lovers long dead,

And she shall write forevermore.