Old men in starched collars and neat-knot ties sit at single tables,

fidget through quality newspapers,

their high-shine brogues sink into the royal Dartmouth weave.

They shuffle here each morning, refugees from the past

in tweed waistcoats, the odd paisley cravat, to settle in silence

between gilded mirrors, hunt scenes lit by lamps,

leather bound volumes of Shakespeare and the Life of Petrarch

behind the mullioned glass of the bookcase.

Lunch is unsurprising: something filleted, sliced thin,

served with impeccable good manners by quiet waiters

who gently offer nostalgic puddings:

Apple Amber, Baked Alaska, Charlotte Ruse.

The grandfather clock, solemn in its mahogany case,

chimes the afternoon hours to quiet oblivion

until the old men brave the puzzle and chaos of the town,

baffle their way through the din and blare

to the modest supper the home-help has left for them,

something cold under cellophane.