The round table is adorned with jewels of red and green,

peppers and olives and pastries and meats.

Don McLean croons softly in the background,

as he talks about guacamole and she talks about her weekend off.

The rabbit stares longingly at the table,

stuck behind thin metal bars,

as the summer breeze rustles the leaves of the dead plant on the windowsill.



Office workers wilt in crumpled white shirts,

children giggle as they trundle past on wobbly bikes,

tourists walk with jackets tied round their waists,

obviously unprepared for the hot summer of a cold country,

joggers plow past, punishing themselves,

so they can look good by the pool in Majorca,

and the old dog pants as he stumbles behind his sprightly owner.

Waiting for the Train

The platform is blanketed in blessed shade,

the train is late, and it is too hot.

A middle aged woman covers herself in suntan lotion.

A young man speaks a foreign language on the phone,

perhaps calling to tell someone he’s going to be late.

A woman in a high-via vest walks up and down the platform,

watering the flowers with plastic containers filled with water.