At The Golden Egg, a cafe,
where ugly folk eat all day breakfasts,
we sip, smoke, read The Mirror,
The Sun, take notes in reams.
An old couple in bobble hats,
crater expressions face their plates,
each other, over his fried slice and beans.
They slurp with all the time in the world.
I think they must be cold, no jokes,
nothing more to win.
I think it’s all over – until she chokes,
dribbles on a bit of gristle
and he wipes the egg yolk from her chin.
05
uka
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