We sit with moules frites in the cafe.

Outside young men crouch at the perimeters.

As each truck slows, they rush forward

and throw themselves at the tailgate,

clinging on like mussels

until the police prise them off

and toss them back into the road.

And so they retreat to the edges

to wait for the next one.

Police lining one side of the road,

us gathered on the cafe terrace opposite.

All of us watching desperate people

risk their lives.

Until guilt drives us back inside 

to our tables by the windows

where drowsy late-summer wasps circle,  

banging repeatedly 

against the plate glass panels.