My First Cup Coffee

I’m sophisticated in my Cuban heels,
my mother’s blue felt hat
with the smart feather like a fishing fly

as I sit with her in the Kardomah; and
coffee please, I say, not orange squash,
crossing my legs, elegant as an advert.

Beyond the ridges of my mother’s perm
the High Street is a silent film
bustling with extras: hands grasping purses,

steering prams, eyes fixed on lists,
bolster hips in safe-choice-coloured skirts
—and then, centre screen, Nicolette Hawkins

(best in the class at hockey, worst at French)
and a boy—kissing,
blouse straining, hands

where they shouldn’t be:
the grown-up thing. My hat’s hot, silly;
coffee tastes like rust.

My mother, following my gaze, frowns: common.
I’m thinking, if I could do all that
I could be bad at French.