It is raining hard outside
The Cafe is closing, though I have just sat down.
My Cafe Au Lait is too hot to drink.
The staff is closing the gates
and quickly wiping the tables.
Putting milk in the refrigerator,
they are banging metal things
almost frantic to close up.
Soon they will begin to stack the chairs around us.
There is only one other customer
in the cafe with me,
enjoying the very last moments
before they ask us to leave.
He is thin and very dirty
and I believe his mug has been
empty for a long time.
This poem is not about banging metal and wasted coffee.
It's about trying to sleep through the night with your face in the rain.