The Tabloid Papers Man

The tabloid papers man
Sits on his own at a single table
His back turned and his head buried
In the gaping mouth of his tabloid papers
Steam spirals in a rising column from behind the printed yawn
From a coffee hidden behind the death and slander
That forms the morning read.
Pages turned, noisily cut through the gentle atmosphere
Accompanying the explosive jerk that straightens the papers
To a rigid upright salute, till the centre folds give way again
Angry murmurs and aggressive mutters of fallen stocks
The cup crashes to the saucer with each unlucky purchase
Creating a tidal wave of black that breeches the rim
And falls safely to the saucers jaws
The arrogant tabloid papers man…

Has finished

He downs his remaining rich black brew
Leaving behind the wash of black granules
His time has come to behave as any other, on his way to work
The papers return to the rightful place;
Tucked neatly under one arm, as a brief case is held knee high by the other
And then he leaves.