Once crisp with sharp edges,now aged and frayed,
A humble sachet of sugar
Yellow with stories
Untold.
But wait, take a sip,
For like the shoulder of
A fair-weather friend,
Your hot cuppa
Might turn
Cold.
I have sister sachets,
They are brown and as sweet,
Yet picked by few,
They seem to prefer
All, fair and white,
Judging sugar
by its cover.
I see routine fresh faced lovebirds,
With impatient eyes,
Walk in holding hands,
Hair spiked with gel.
Like cup and saucer,
Newly polished,
Chattering.
Twinkle in his eye, grace in his gait,
Looking for his soulmate,
"He is waiting ,
for his groom,"
Whispers the nosy dessert
Lying on his plate.
I notice it is a
Rainbow muffin.
The high pitched spoon and the perky guy
Set friends up on a blind date,
Stirring up a storm in
A cup, untill
The sugar melts
In the warmth
Of coffee.
Buns, like romances, fresh and soft,
With age, turn hard to chew,
Till the green black claws
Of mould, devour them.
Although, like few cookies, seasoned couples
Have beautiful cracks,
Chewy, they last long.
And do not,
Crumble.
Pastries, and mousses are fashionistas
Dress fancy with lots of grease paint,
Almost sickeningly sweet,
Fattening your guilt,
Siphoning the pocket.
Then once in a while, she comes your way,
Unapologetic, slightly bitter,
Comforting and dark,
Chocolate.
The guy with the paunch, empties
Four of us in his cup,
As a young man pleads,
His powerpoint
Presentation
Hunting eagerly for approval.
He reminds me of oven fresh bread,
Ready to perch on the grill,
To be ironed out,
Flat.
I often see a budding writer,
She skips me altogether,
In her black coffee;
But sneaks one of us
In her purse, for
A sugar high,
If need be.
With empty eyes she stares into space,
Like the drab sponge wiping my table,
But she appears hungry,
As she absorbs
Stories.
The lamps with their soft glow, are watchful,
They have a bird's eye view,
A friend comforting
A broken soul,
Who clutches the cup so hard,
As if to get a grip
On the slippery
Slope of
Life.
The table is a through veteran,
Of stains and forgotten car keys,
Pointy elbows, tapping fingers,
And banging fists.
While he and the chair are a team,
She sometimes creaks and complains,
"Table number 9" when they call-
" They always take your name!"
" I have a trough on my
Broken back, for years, I
Have borne their weight,
You shoulder forks,
Dishes and cups,
And snatch away
All the
Fame."
Teas are foreigners in our fancy cafe,
With wannabe names they are served chilled,
Their flavours collide and conflict,
Like the elite lads sipping on them,
Counting calories.
My mom, Miss Castor Sugar, of the bottle,
Told me, back in the good old days,
Teas were natives with fire within,
With substance, they packed a punch,
Much like the simple chaps
Who sipped on them
With a slurp, after
Counting their
Pennies.
Fellow sugars call me an old lady,
Judging as the world goes by,
Shrugging, as I count my days.
They say I talk in metaphors,
And so do I concede,
I watch and I dream, and,
Once in a while,
I pause to smell
The coffee.
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