Today there were eight of them,
sat in the best seats,
sipping the same cappuccino
for hours, until the froth
had flumped.
And all with an infant
crooked in an arm,
flopped on a shoulder.
He sips an espresso so scorching
it scalds his tongue but still
he cannot stop mumbling swear
words under his breath.
Why do they flock here?
The chitter-chatter of mothers
sounds like a pod of dolphins
clicking and splashing, the babies
mewing and squawking until
one by one they disappear
into folds of clothes
attached to nipples;
warm milk on demand
and they never pay.
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