Perspiration rolls down the tea urn
as he fries bacon in the snow.
Some sort of coded exchange takes place
between the beans, and a spitting sausage.
A regular patron tugs off her wool hat,
balls it up, and pushes it into an open bap.
'No margarine thanks,' says a seagull,
pecking at yesterday's crossword
while he waits for a burger.
There are lines you learn not to cross.
We talk about football, Tuesdays,
the weather.
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