Best Place Poem by Phil Lucas

A storm is grating the ocean,
but in the café
an elderly couple are warm with now.
They sit mostly silent,
the bond of a buried golden jubilee
has filed the flow of chatter
to snippets
from tea-fused contemplation.
“I bet the window cleaner is cold.”
“Joan went into hospital again yesterday.”
“A little too much jam in these donuts, don’t you think? ”

Stronger shrieks our tempest now;
the fuming flume tide
hurling downpour freckles unnumbered
upon our ‘shipshape’ porthole window.

“You’re in the best place, ”
the couple say to me in unison.
“You maybe too, ”
I reply.