Cafe Style

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poetry

Cafe Style
Blind rules didn’t necessarily
Mean too much to him, he skiffled
And shuffled up and down the stairs.

His rough worn manual labour hands,
Are gripping, floating, rubbing, flirting
With polished grained wooden rail.

He seldom looked down, his sure
Falling feet finding their usual
Well rehearsed home trodden place.

© David R. Durham
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