Elegance and the Rug by Mandy Pannett

I am not a silent poet

The cafetiere is elegant.

Aromas of dark coffee

tickle my nostrils, offer

exotic worlds.

The handle of the pot,

half-moon in shape,

is like a portal to some

shiny star,

a gate against

the city street

and the beggar’s rug

which mouth-like

gulps a cache of coins:

silver fodder;

belly-food.

On the rug

loose change huddles

as wet shoppers do

in a doorway in the rain.

Other coins, scattered,

are isolates

who sit alone in cafe or pub,

always at the table

near the door.

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