Oxford one Thursday before Christmas.
Down Ship Street for lunch,
sticking to what we know.
Inside, into warm familiarity,
away from the chirp of bike-wheels,
tuba players and cold latching
onto our cheeks.
A trio of guys, one female at the back,
preppy students sipping coffee,
crumbs scattered like sesame seeds
over white plates and laps.
Smashmouth on the stereo,
a choice between Coke or pink lemonade
(Coke it is),
a flapjack for one-seventy if I wanted.
My stomach growls for grub.
I think of winter drizzled everywhere,
scrawl all this upon a scrap of paper
using my father’s pen.
Then a black-haired girl
with a sincere smile hands over
my baguette, chopped in two
and I think of her until we are finished,
well out the door
with my coat zipped right up.