The sun streams through the glass
as if trying to set the paper doilies
on our wooden bench
alight or at least spark into life
the broadsheet news that lays between us
and the sway of information,
the language barrier breaking down,
between the forties and the roaring
twenty-something who between them
understand that love is not
an emotion that signifies sex.
The sound of belly-ache
laugh ripples untidily
across the rip tide of tea
and the thought of cinema
going on overhead;