The cafe terrace

by Le Prince de Monte Cristo

The cafe- terrace

The round tables, no napkins,
The cold metallic chairs,
The "petit noir" smoking in the tiny cup
The cigarette unsmoked in the ashtray
Two croissants on a plate laying on the never ending bar
The garcon half asleep serving "un petit rouge" to the street cleaner
At the terrace, behind the glass window, the sun warming the first punter
The fresh bread baked somewhere titillating his nose
The crowd rushing for no reason on the Champs Elysees
The ghostly live statue scaring the child
One by one the lamp posts turning off
The dustbin truck blocking the road
Somewhere a driver horns furiously
The little old lady in her black dress passing by
Almost feeling guilty for being still around
The metro vomiting its passengers
It is six O'clock
Paris wakes up