In The Queue In The Waitrose Café, I Meet My Love

Liz Lefroy

The man next to me in the queue is gorgeous.

It starts with him telling me I’ve dropped my pen,

and I pick it up, though it’s not mine.

I’m almost sure he knew that anyway,

so we talk about pens and dropping things.

I ask for a cappuccino, and we’re on to poetry.

As the milk is frothed he says for him

it’s about what rhymes with daffodils.

I tell him about my rhyming dictionary.

He says, So you’re a clever girl then!

I smile, say, No, then, Yes, to chocolate.

We laugh as I hand over a five pound note.

If I were fifty years younger, I’d fall in love with you.

He says this as I hold out my hand for change -

all this in minutes, and I already love him.

He’s eighty-five, but I won’t believe it.

He looks at me from the corner of his eye,

gives a nod of knowing, asks for two cups of tea,

hooks his stick over his arm to pay.

I say, Lovely to meet you, walk to a table

past a woman who is smaller than him,

creased into a chair and wearing pink socks.

I look up at them from time to time.

I see their silence.  It’s just been a long time.

It’s been a long, long time. 

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