These Old Cafés

Not the smart redecorated ones 

with mobile phone top-ups 

and take-home mugs. 

The archaic ones 

with walls that flake and puff 

where strange folk sit and pick 

their nails with toothpicks, coins,

the corners of matchbooks. 

A book of matches. A book of fire. 

A book of all the things that burn 

before your eyes 

and in that end regain their dignity 

like a viking warlord aflame in his boat 

pushed out to sea

lighting the night with his memory 

held in the minds of men 

who will drink long horns of ale to him 

and sing the ancient songs. 

In these cafés there are such things;

books of matches

books of the stories that cannot exist 

anywhere else in this world. 

Men who are not yet old 

prop themselves on the crumbling chair. 

A newspaper rests on the table 

but these men don’t read; 

they are busy with something else, 

some invisible work that eats up all their time. 

You wanted a take-away coffee 

but you have come to the wrong place. 

You have entered with too much speed. 

Your voice sounds too loud 

and disturbs the thick air. 

You realise it only once the words 

have left your mouth. 

This place doesn’t do take-away. 

It may take a while for any drink to come at all.