Forgive Me My Moment Of Weakness

I've come to the
Raffles cafe in Paddington,
in a bid to banish any lingering taste
of orthodontic silly-putty from my gums.
Raffles is an old school kind of place.
All set breakfasts. And chips with everything.
A dying bread in our modern frappaccino Britain.
The tablecloths are plastic green gingham.
The sauces are red and brown.
The walls are festooned with framed
black-and-white photographs
of Han Solo, Dorothy and Toto,
Kirk Douglas, Peter Lorre, Stan and Ollie,
Awesome Welles, Bogie, Garbo and Dietrich.
It's not the first time
I've come here in search of sustenance.
I ate here once before;
on a lazy Bank Holiday afternoon,
back when I was happy
and in love
and there wasn't dust and wood shavings
and polythene all over the floor
of the house I had yet to buy.
The impressions taken of my teeth
are hardening at room temperature as I order
baked beans and scrambled eggs on two toasts.
By the time I've finished my brew.
they'll have been collected by a courier
and begun their all-expenses-paid trip to Germany.