Peckham, December 6th 2017

A tragic poem called: £3

Black coffee in a black cup on a black saucer. 
Bottle of white milk on the side. 
Electric lemon table.

I angle my phone, 
A picture from above
will capture the heavy sphere and its white moon on flat yellow sky.

The shadow of my elbow falls across
And the spoon is invading
An insistent corner of newspaper juts in
I clear them from my clean frame

but the coffee is close to the table edge. 
Just a nudge this way
Cup rattles
coffee spills
and sweeps to the table edges.
Shit.

I mop the swift puddle up
With scrappy tissues from the bottom of my pocket. 
And hope nobody noticed.

One cold half inch left in the cup
taking the piss.