Chill wind stipples the skin of small still lakes
laid between banks of concrete and of grass.
Drops of rain, unwished as tears, pitch people
into the grace of sandstone portico.
Coatlessly passing the sloganed posters
subverting food and pharmacology
their retinas resist the tug of names
chiselled into the whiteness of marble.
Minds homing ahead of steps untrodden
and corners unturned they hurry in hope
of pleasures brought together thoughtfully
to nourish desire under thrumming lights.
Charmed by casual slicks of oil on leaves
they wait a moment, mumuring comments,
as syrup seeps from the bruising bite marks
of a serrated blade slicing through cake.
Votive trays briefly halted at the till
they proceed in the art of consumption
towards the blood-warm coffee and green tea
which they pour and place unspillingly.
Then they eat quietly in the clattering din
of cutlery and rain and steps and chairs
steering their companionship through
the wateriness of words and memory.
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