Lunchtime at Philo’s coffee shop (opposite the chip shop.)

A coffee house… blurred conversations in the background.
Chintzy backroom gossip ..”I heard this… she told me that.”
“Did you hear about…?”… “What’s he writing over there?”
“The dog had to have an anal injection.” “Really? Ouch!”
“It hates going to the vets. Never eats the biscuits they give him.”

Add some more sugar to the cup. Breeze catches the empty packet.
Broken match on the table. Broken marriage in the corner.
Laughter running up the stairs; a glass breaks in their kitchen.
I take a photo of the fish and chip shop. The shutter closes.
No-one bats an eyelid. Not even for a fraction of a second.

Lunchtime… Afternoon tea…Yorkshire Tea…Very English.
Cucumber sandwiches… White & Green…Watercress garnish.
Buttered fluffy fresh scone and raspberry jam with real pips.
Three pounds eighty-five. Table number five.
Jazz CD heard a thousand times by the young staff.

The sun breaks through outside; a couple shift into a dance.
Her heel is caught in the grate. He lifts her into the air.
A baggy denim shirt hides a figure too large;
Too many naughty weekend away English Breakfasts and
Hot croissants with butter; tempting as another chocolate.

Cascading tomato sauce, an oily pigeon fights a luke-warm chip.
A man slips on a Pukka pie. Arms and legs akimbo.
His fall taps a stationary car. Alarm boops electric signals
Falsely alerting the world to a state of theft.
The chip shop owner swears. “Fifth booping time today!”

Phil Lowe