In the Corner at Starbucks

Get through the pleasantries;
small talk at Starbucks
over pumpkin spice lattes’
introductions: singer to artist,
artist to headliner
at a comedy club,

and then, there is me

sitting in the corner
penning this poem on a napkin;
this woman
who can’t really call herself a poet,

What will it take to make it real;
one more book, two,
a book signing
(with more than five people)
clamoring for an autographed copy,

or can I just feel it in my soul
deep down
where the pounding won’t stop
until keys click out thoughts
that stick in your throat
burn you, from the inside
to get out;

this ache I’ve had all my life;
nagging noise
of a mesmerizing muse
begging to be heard-
dying to be proclaimed

a poet.



8 thoughts on “In the Corner at Starbucks

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