Into my café comes the lady
who has a flower shop next door,
she wears a morning face,
pale and slightly puffed.
Later, at the back of her shop,
she will put on a painted face
and smile to her costumers.

Shortly after the bank teller enters for his coffee,
he has a narrow indoor face
and long, thin fingers
which he drums on the counter
while drinking his brew
and waiting for the bank to open.

Then a group of bewildered tourists
clumsily seep in
and I’m almost too busy to notice
that she has been crying
and that the bank man’s lips
are a pale scar of angry rejection.