Her Louboutins clack on the porcelain tiles.
She peers out of her Versace shades
and continues clacking towards the café.
Her manicured finger points it out
as she is led to a wooden table.
Her massaged hand removes the darkness,
places it alongside the Venetian wine glass.
A sigh escapes her perfectly smeared crimson lips
as a working-class hand places the plate.
She grips the silver-plated spoon,
smears the fluffy cream on top,
puts it down with a sharp click.
Her matching fork is raised
and pierces through the sponge,
sinking to the bottom like her esteem.
Raised up to her mouth,
inserted and lips close.
She completes and places a leopard.
Removes herself and clacks onward like a freight train.