Saturday-stroke-Sunday morning, Marco’s done his chores.
He switches off the stereo, puts "closed" upon the doors.

He brushes a neglected crumb and flicks it in the bin
and smiles at empty tables as he pours himself a gin.

He stretches out his aching legs, unfolds the flaming feet
and with his wise and weary eyes, looks out into the street.

The Baker’s cat, Napoleon, sniffs a wind-blown paper bag.
Marco lights a well-deserved and long-awaited fag.

His eyelids close, he dreams of home and ladies of Ravenna.
On Table Eight, beneath a plate, awaits a grateful tenner.