GLASGOW TUESDAY

In a Glasgow café all alone,
Bilge floating down the radio,
Latte sliding down my voluptuous throat,
Contemplating life in general and in particular,
People shambling past my window on the world,
Pinched faces, runny noses,
Fleeces and anoraks pulled up against the cold,
Tobacco reek trailing along behind them.

Two ladies huddling in the seats outside,
Drinking cappuccino in some relief,
Gloved hands wrapped around the warming glass,
Oblivious of the absurdity of their position.

I suppose I am more or less content,
I haven’t been shot at today,
And none of my limbs have fallen off,
But life’s an awkward ambulascade,
And I haven’t quite got the hang of it,
Despite plodding on this earth,
For fifty-eight long years.

Perhaps in this small café,
In a Georgian Glasgow square,
On a cold and bleary February Tuesday,
Another piece of the jigsaw,
Will finally drop into place.