Coffee bar

This is the office I go to every morning where I write, read the paper, do the su doku and crossword.

City

Strobing through naked branches, orange filtered sunlight
shadow-flickers on grimy windows, sparks on the curves
of cars creeping across the waking city.
Double-decker faces peer from steamed-up buses
that diesel-rumble along slippy shiny roads.
iPodded pedestrians, briefcased
and laptopped plod towards their towers
of concrete, steel and glass where money
gently hums to a pinstriped rhythm.
Beneath café awnings aluminium
chairs are being unstacked,
sandwich boards unfolded.
Inside, the jarring sound of coffee
being ground, the hiss and whistle
of an espresso machine.
The first customers ordering
lattes and cappuccinos –
takeaways in cardboard cups.
People carrying things –
window cleaners with squeegees,
postmen with heavy sacks,
groceries from the metro-store,
designer shopping bags,
bottles of designer water,
umbrellas, and a guitar case.
Biffa bins being lifted,
emptied into sturdy trucks –
the heave and slide of life’s
detritus consigned
to the landfill
of history.