My spoon circles the coffee
Breaking cinnamon art
Allowing foam to sit on my tongue
savouring creamy sweet
The melodious French voice
wafts over raisin toast and latte
Speaking fluently, her hands twist
and turn gracefully as she speaks
In days past I knew him
robust, a giant of a man
His height a commanding presence
I called him teddy bear, back then
always cuddly, always smiling
Family friend with softly spoken words
The laminate table shares the bowl
of hot chips, breakfast or is it lunch
no time frame for pensioners
Combinations of the young walk past
Stripes and spots
leopard print with lemon
The beast would cringe
The elderly man comes closer in view
His walker supporting his limping body
frail and thin, head of grey, brown corduroys
Sunken cheeks, no smile
Recognition in the moment, a familiar face
teddy bear feebly steps
Madame pulls out her compact straightens her fringe
Chips are air blown cool between them and
he walks slowly past
Copyright JMTacken 16.7.14
warm smile, hand raised
flat white decaf?
here he said
feet tucked in, ankles crossed
grabs the sugar
he reaches ~ hands brush
head thrown back, warm smile
he’s smitten, she feels the vibe
wrapped around little finger
watches coffee cream
on balmed ruby lips
tongue smooths it gone
before he has the chance
he wants to sprawl
across the plate filled table
grab the back of her head
make intentions clear
ruby lips needn’t talk
she’s smitten, I can tell
©JTacken Jan 2014
and yes Latte’s and decaf not around In Mr. Dean’s time…ahh mores the pity
or Mags Models and Moi.
So I just returned from getting new tyres put on my car. A “blokey” (Aussie term for man) atmosphere without a female in sight, at least there was a coffee machine.
I sat down in front of the coffee table in the ‘waiting room’ with the not so abundant array of magazines ahead of me. The choice admittedly was rather dismal. Yes, ‘yee har’ there were mags for the boys on tyres, and 4 wheel drives and the like about 5 and 2 mags for the women folk.
Vogue and another glossy high fashion one with Jennifer Anniston on the cover (I remember her) but not the magazine title. I sat with my skirt and T shirt on sipping my machine made latte (taking note this is the 1st warm day we have had since Winter has ceased) so my bare white skin was that of a beacon heralding the arrival of Spring.
Casting my eyes on the pages and flicking through, with stunning photographs (all touched up by the way) of the glamourous models and the expensive haute couture clothing that adorned their silken bronzed bodies. I gazed in awe at how pretty the clothes were and indeed how perfectly unmarked (almost store mannequin) were the models that wore them.
Sadly I looked downwards to my arm holding said magazine and looked at my pale, slightly freckled, corrugated arm that was holding it up. Rearranging my skin so that the corrugation wasn’t on full view (even to myself any longer) I continued glancing through the pages.
The meaning of this post? I have lived in this body for 57 years and as much as it sometimes makes me go ‘ugh’ I have no choice but continue living in it. The models in the mags are all young, stunning, air brushed and haven’t had kids.
I am older, bore 2 children and definitely not air-brushed and for gods sake don’t get me started on my legs! I just won’t look down anymore.