Monday, 2 January 2012

Coffee with Brian and Christopher (Foyles War)

With negligible choice available
I pulled out a pew and placed both feet,
beneath an uneven table; this,
brought to my attention by
my displaced Americano.

The short-comings of my inflexible
friend, I must lament, meant 
I had to make it up
to a 'lady'.
I picked-out (randomly)
an homogenous lump; a brownie,
it fitted the equation perfectly
(one quarter of a pony) but,
not (seemingly) my cake-hole
and so,
I retrieved the sticky gobbet from my lap.

In opposition to an empty cup;
it's ceramic cavity, cracked
by stormy cumulonimbus.
To my "far left", a stranger sat,
uncomfortably beside me.
(Perhaps, he is a Trotskyist)?
And there we were,
as East and West in London Town.

I picked up my copy of Hitch 22,
pretending to be lost
in pseudo-
intellectual tirade.
(Of course, I don't mean that,
RIP my new-found comrade)

Across the room, a small group
of Oxbridge grads welcome a fellowe,
as best they could; greeting
one another, awkwardly.
Rigid arms attempting warm embrace;
a 'manly' tapping on the back.
Social incongruences cracking
in to sumptuous smiles.

Drifting in and out of earshot
was the grating sound of 'jazz cafe',
the screetch of cats scratching
on a glass runway, 
tailed by an intrepid K-9.

Brian Blessed enters-in,
a little less barbarous than usual.
Served by a jobbing  thespian;
who is five oclock, over-shadowed.

By shear chance,
sweet Mr Blessed takes his place
in front of me.
His chubby digits swiftly anticipate
the bitterness held, inside
the tiny cup.
For a moment he cherishes
the contents of
this porcelain vessel, a mouthful on his palate.

"Gordon's Alive"!
As expressly as he arrived,
he takes his leave...

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