There’s a quiet insistence in the hissing machine,
A confidence in it’s ability to produce
The perfect coffee, first time, every time.

The Columbus is filling slowly, Saturdays breakfast
Treats anticipated, the chatter growing to a level
That the Postmistress would never have tolerated.

For a Post Office it used to be, when we still had them,
A large Edwardian brick building, all false columns
And portico, and plaster crest of a long dead king.

If a building could grin this one would, I’m sure it likes
The new raiment, much more fun with music, morning papers,
Saturday snippets, a joyful prologue of the day.

Mostly couples here so far, all of an age, she orders
Flat white decaf and eggs benedict, he orders a large cappuccino
And a full breakfast, then choose a table, choose a chair.

Then the conversation starts, slow at first, they're learning
Again how to talk and how to listen, no time
For practice in the wage driven week.

And you wonder what comes next, as they leave does
The closing door decapitate the day’s promise, leaving a headless
Saturday still and silent in the warming sun.

Or does it lead on…..