Outside the coffee shop,
A lady sits, pen in hand,
Working through a crossword puzzle,
In her daily paper,
She occasionally breaks for nicotine,
To flick ash, or take a slow sip of latte.
She is clothed in thrift shop hand-me-downs,
A dowdy mix of ill-matched threads,
Her hair is long, dull-grey,
She is alone.
You can find her most days in the self-same posture,
Passing regular sideways glances at adjacent tables,
Until finally, at last, as always,
She finds her moment to cut in.
She is alone,