They sat me at the window.
Black coffee, oats and honey,
Reading The Ginger Man.
The last few days are muddy.

From the depths of the café
Past tables of civil folk,
Families and friends,
She rose and donned her cloak.

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Her man paid the bill,
Opened the door,
And she stepped outside.

Long coat and long hair,
I longed to see her face before
She entered into the brisk midday.

I prayed she would turn left,
Pass in front of the window
That I might gaze upon her.

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She turned right.