Automat It's not the kind of cafe for shedding coats despite the crushed velvet heavy on your shoulders: the fur collar’s genuine, and warm. Your hat stays too, its broad brim an awning for downcast eyes. Outside the winter varnishes the streets, contracts the lit windowpane that frames you with nocturnal black. You feel it vast against your back, a sea trawled by yellow lights barely breaking surface. You remove a glove for coffee made tepid by the chill, anticipate an artificial taste, wonder as you lift the cup if the apples in the fruit bowl are real. Were the chairs around you occupied you’d ask for an opinion; or search for someone else who might appreciate the value of warmth. Paul McDonald Paul McDonald runs the creative writing programme at the University of Wolverhampton, England. He is the author of fifteen books, which cover fiction, poetry, and scholarship. His work has won a number of prizes including the Ottakars/Faber and Faber Poetry Competition, The John Clare Poetry Prize, and the Sentinel Poetry Prize. His academic work includes books on Philip Roth, Joseph Heller, Toni Morrison, narratology, and the philosophy of humour. https://www.amazon.co.uk/Paul-McDonald/e/B001JS7654/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1505512989&sr=8-1
3 Comments
William Schmidtkunz
10/10/2017 09:39:47 pm
"or search for someone else who might appreciate the value of warmth"
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Paul McDonald
12/14/2017 08:31:16 am
Many thanks William
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Rob Edwards
3/10/2019 11:21:40 pm
Revisiting this image and the words that you extrude from it Paul puts me in mind of Ada Shelby, the 'little sister' who went at 'head of family' Tommy's instruction to 'open up' America.
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