@MattAbbottPoet

@MattAbbottPoet
Image © Copyright Amy Charles Media 2014

9 Nov 2012

Breakfast at Sylvia's


Sylvia's hands wipe the table cloth,
blending with the colour as she goes:
bed and chubby in the most part,
but white and frayed around the knuckles.
There's no coffee on the menu,
two lumps of sugar as standard in your tea,
and so much food you can't eat again for a week.
A portrait of Dusty Springfield hangs proudly above my table.
Pet Clark sings softly on the radio, closely followed by Chuck Berry.
I flick through the back pages of a worthless rag,
and then sigh with comfort as my spoon dances and sings;
swirling semi-skimmed around my steaming hot mug.
This cosy little café on the corner of Kingsway:
a home away from home.
It's bloody freezing outside, the first week of November,
but since Sylvia stuck the heating on it feels like dining in a jacuzzi.
"Six years you've been coming", she smiles, with silver in the jar,
"and you know love, you matter where you go, we'll never be too far."
I sit back down, fiddle for a fag,
and then sink into the warmth of my final five minutes.

And if you wanna go out, why don't you say so?
And if you wanna drive me home, why don't you say so?
And if you wanna meet up, and then the lights off.
And if you wanna go out, why don't you say so?

So I'm just about to leave when we're interrupted;
prompted by the chimes above the door,
all eyes are guided to a stranger's face.
She looks timid, but still struts as she makes her way towards the counter:
her phone's died, the car's broken down and she needs to make a call.
In an instant she's outrageously out of place;
like a reasoned smile on a doctrinaire,
like a tropical bird at Trafalgar Square;
she's pierced the afternoon.
We're all at a loss for what to do.
I don't need to tell you how stunning she is, and not only that,
she'd slip seamlessly into Sylvia's age twice over;
and leave the poor woman blushing at the years to spare as she fumbles about for the handset.
I shift my eyes to force distraction, and then I see him:
the sun tan, the side parting,
the linen shirt and the Aston Martin:
the Don Juan of Horbury.
I wipe the baked bean juice from the corner of my mouth,
stand up, and follow her out;
comfort for too long has cursed me,
and I never see this café again.

And if you wanna go out, why don't you say so?
And if you wanna drive me home, why don't you say so?
And if you wanna meet up, and then the lights off.
And if you wanna go out, why don't you say so?
And if you wanna go out, why don't you say so?
And if you wanna drive me home, why don't you say so?
And if you wanna meet up, and then the lights off
And if you wanna go out, why don't you say so...