whilst all around was grey
and dull and dreary
in a drizzly penny-pinching 1960’s
kind of way,
down a cobbled back street
behind Whittakers & the ladies lavs
was an outpost of sultry exotica,
where, after a morning’s shopping,
and if we’d been good,
she might take the weight off her feet
for half an hour or so.
Wrought iron tables & red tassled shades
and a smoky half-light
where the foamy coffee tasted of coffee
& not the flat lukewarm piss on offer
– the lady owner a Flamenco dancer
with ruffled dress & a mole on her cheek
and jet black hair.
I didn’t know what it was, exactly,
but I knew what I liked.