Wednesday morning in the Café Caprice

Wednesday morning in the Café Caprice

Wednesday morning in the Café Caprice

There’s a sledge hammer going steadily
in the upper left corner of the roof.

A roar of steam from the cappuccino jet.

A rotary machine drying itself
or the air or something else helpless and silent.

Someone knocking espresso bricks out of their mould
against the side of a bin, metal on metal.

Dean Martin crooning his love
to a thousand violins.

The garbage van compacting the street’s refuse
in four dimensions of decibels.

Teaspoons clattering onto saucers

A fly coughing and coughing on my arm.

Across the road the sea in its own silent movie
throwing up waves, catching them in its blue arms.