While waiting for toast

In​ each little square,
​sits​ silverware and white
plates ​with ​a single
flower of ​grey plastic​.​
​You and I sit to eat
a breakfast of fried
splendour and toasted
plenty with butter
served with trained
smiles and you wait
sipping coffee that
​I​ wouldn’t scrub
floors with at home.
Next to you, two
men flop over seats
holding cups like toys
from play houses,
with rag doll fingers.
One sighs, It’s all
about the angle’
and the other just
looks into his cup.

Published in The Lake

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