London coffee

I met a fellow poet
who strikes it lucky with his lungs
so long as it’s allowed

another foreigner you see
who understands the tragic hiatus
of having to apply (…are you for real?)
after so long
for “settled status”

we talked of works and words
for most or maybe not
who knows

double macchiato
black americano

of the insecurities of age
of improbable theories
of the strange invisibility of places
right in the centre
of the megalopolis

and then in the Greek Deli
the shop assistant greeted us with γεια σας
assuming that my beard
his jet black hair
the fact that we were talking loud
with furrowed brows perhaps
were hallmarks of wine-coloured euro-passports
and not the faded blue
of crypto but resurgent xenophobes

and she was right
kind of
in the ball-park at least

at least
it wasn’t raining

nothing to spoil the honey-sweet baklavas
inside the paper bag
or water-down
a stolen bit of Sunday in the fall

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