Ken's Poetry

Cheap Lunch

I recognised you as you passed.
You were always a big woman
busy and loud about your work
in your little café.
That was when Mark was a boy
and we came for a cheap lunch
our minds filled with furniture,
curtains, TVs and stuff.
We always had a little chat
sipping the hot tea you brought
the ache draining from our feet.

You are in a wheelchair
and someone is pushing you
whilst I sit and stare.
You don’t recognise me.