I stare into my cup of Java
And watch the lines of yet to be written verse
Circulate in the thick froth
I rise to the platform at the rear
Of this dimly lit, smoke filled cafe
I speak, the shop falls into silence
The dull hum of half forgotten conversations fading out
I hear myself as they hear me
Reflected in their eyes
I see my image
Shouting roaring ranting
Whispering singing verse
I try to evoke emotions
In which I’m solidly wrapped
But glazed are their eyes
Only mirrors in a body
And deaf are their ears
To understand my works
… Still in a far off corner
I spot one who might . . .
Might just be listening
Who might even relate,
Who at least appears to care,
I see a battered notebook into
which he begins to scrawl
I now step down from platform
And walk to his far corner
As the dull hum of conversation
Fills the room once more
He speaks, verse rolling of his lip
Forming it’s self into the steam drifting upward
From his dark cup of Java
