The girls have been to the beach,
hair still wet scenting of the sea
I shall not see again,
now they are in my café drinking orange juice,
freshly squeezed,
giggling
and talking about the boys they have met,
passing cruel judgment
about those of them they didn’t like.

Clearing tables, washing cups and saucers
I pretend not to hear their happy chirping.
Sweet regrets
I feel so ponderous and heavy,
my ankles hurt
and I have miles to walk before closing time.
Suddenly they are gone,
like flamingos taking off in unison,
but they do turn smile and wave.