In a plastic cup of coffee
She stirs her broken dreams
Her prettiness half hidden
Half smiles not what they seem.
In a cafe now on wasteground
Near rail tracks which lead nowhere
In a town thats slowly dying
Runs fingers through her hair.
The tables of chipped formica
Uneven chairs grained in dirt
The prices they are low
A sense of lingering dispair.
The owners white jacket is stained
The coffee machine gasps for air
The carpet sticks to your feet
The assistant stares afar.
The traffic rumbles by
Single glass shakes its frame
The blinking ceiling light
No one is to blame.