Robert and Guillaume take up their usual seats
By the window, which looks out to the square;
Old men, they moan about the torrid heat,
The patron serves this aged, loyal pair;
Past his prime, he gives us a cheery smile,
‘You like breakfast?’ (How does he know we’re Brits?)
The cafe’s run down, faded with cracked tiles,
He’s alone but his kind, furrowed face fits
The decor. More come in from the Third Age,
Greet, shake hands, kiss – mechanical habits;
The patron eyes the rain, ‘On dit le temps anglais!’
We laugh along, appreciate his friendship.
We like this shabby place, the local scene,
‘Ça pisse,’ but we enjoy our burnt tartines.
