Tucked away in the corner of a café
eyes low over the rim of my steaming coffee
I watch the morning crowd shuffle in
from the darkened bitter street.

The first shift waitress teapot in hand
glides wearily round the dingy tiled floor
to truckers and business men alike
and in her politest of 5am tones she repeats
to the half deaf bloke at the left window table:
"We have lap-sang and earl-grey sir,
or just plain English breakfast"

And I can't help but grin into my mug
as she returns from the kitchen minutes later
with packaging in hand to aid her order
(I guess she doesn't do geriatrics)