Will Vigar

poet. writer. imposter.

Fifteen Cafe Scenes (11 – 15)


xi. Hallelujah?

“She always brings
extra biscuits for God

and makes sure 
there is enough tea 

for His cup.”
She acknowledges

that His cuppa does
not runneth over.

It just goes cold
and is wasted.


xii. Cold Feet

They are in love
it seems
and planning
their wedding.

Alles klar 
until the mention
of babies.
She blooms 

and flushes
and practices 
her clucking.
The fear he feels

turns his eyes
dead and cold.

He plans his escape.


xiii. Watch

An old man, arthritic and feeble
pulls and aged canvas roll from his bag.
He unwraps it with a wistful smile
and immeasurable pride.

With elegant solemnity 
he passes the delicate tools
of his delicate trade
as an heirloom 
- filigreed and shining -
to his disinterested grandson
who sees nothing
but an obsolete curio.

His interest only piques
when he checks his smartphone
and finds that antique watchmakers tools
fetch a good price on eBay.


xiv. Racist Shit

I can see him seething. 
Naked contempt 
on every line of his face.

He stares.
With barely controlled rage
under his breath

he intones
"Fucking Muslims"
Their conversation falters
but soon regains momentum.

Louder, he repeats his oath.
One of the women 
leans towards him

and with a cheery smile says:
"Actually, we're Sikhs"

Silence . . . 
and then:

"Fucking Muslims"
She rolls her eyes
and sighs,

deciding not to give
this ignorant racist prick
another thought.


xv. The Phone Call

She soon realises 
that hot chocolate, 
even with cream, 
and sprinkles,
and a flake, 
is not the portal 
to happiness 
she thought it might be.
she makes the call anyway.
Her world changes.

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