As usual. Her coffee black.
Her face, as stern, as the china cat
staring solemnly from his windowsill.
Often laid her napkin flat
across knees rigid as a statue's back.
Polished nails briskly tap
loose crumbs to the tiles.
Her top lip tended to curl up
as she waited for the baton to conduct
her solo, her moment to erupt, eyes shut.
But in the tearoom, with a trembling teaspoon, she sits alone.
