THE LUGANO CAFÉ
(once upon a time opposite His Majesty’s Theatre)
Pie, beans and chips with gravy in cramped surroundings
and studying the greasy menu that never changed
commercial travellers in their overcoats.
Frizzy waitress, flat-shoed, at home,
twisting her way past jostling chairs, thick plates askew.
"Is this your son?" I watch as he scoops up the last bean.
One day someone tried to pay by cheque
and caused a commotion,
another the place was closed: Bereaved.
In the end, only the happiness of Tadg
kept us going to the Lugano cafe.
Then time took Tadg and death the cafe
but still the sign remained
above the boarded front, the notice For Sale,
reminding me of gold dust in the grime.
Until today.
There shining in the morning sunlight
(the boards gone and shovelled away
the drooping curtains, the wax chrysanths,
and, down and out from the library opposite,
old men bent low over cups of tea)
affrontage of tinted glass:
La Dolce Vita etched out in fancy letters.
Olivia McMahon
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