In the Pizza Express in Trinity Road i sat

with my wife and a mutual friend

and watched the traffic never end,

reality crept in through every pore

of a world boxed in by four by four

      as we ate unremarkable food.

 

I sought distraction from stupefaction

from the endless creep of dissatisfaction

and the eye of a waitress, a gulf of hope

her future my past,  a visual grope.

Somehow we fed off valuable time

a look both taunting and yet sublime,

      over she came, enquiries made.

 

We chatted in easy recognition

of an earlier visit, a repetition,

I used the voice of Al Pacino

to order a round of cappuccino,

Prince Charles took over for the Duchy dessert

and I was declared a terrible flirt.

 But what is the dedication of age

      if not a plea for empathy

      to cast away the predictable drudge

      bitter sweet as a brownie fudge.