As I sit at the warm café,
the one that’s down beside the sea,
and wait for the coming day.
I feel the heat in the grey
cup, that I purchased for a fee,
as I sit at the warm café.
I see others who would stray
into this room for hot coffee,
and wait for the coming day.
On the tables their cups would lay,
waiters picked them up absently,
as I sit at the warm café.
The clouds outside are shades of grey
which will unleash the torrential sea
and wait for the coming day.
On my table there’s a wilted bouquet
the scents as varied as potpourri,
as I sit at the warm café
and wait for the coming day.
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