Electronic invitations are sent
to this festival of pen, paper, and ink.

No one ever shows up anymore.

I don’t mind.

It gives me more time with this notebook
and a head full of fire.

On Sundays,
the coffee is $.87 and I can have
all that I can swallow.

Today, it came black
in spite of my request
and as I made my
attempt to doctor it
into submission,
it spilled.

The next thing I know,
I have a reem of coffee-soaked
napkins and I’m hoping these
pages can be
salvaged.

After doing the best I can
I hit the john to wash my
hands.

Stepping away from the ******
is a man in a suit and tie.
He shoots me a baleful look
which I gratefully return.

He didn’t stop to wash his hands
in his hurry to get away from me
so I know that his cleanliness and godliness
are about the same distance apart.

Upon my return to my wrecked altar
of ritualized scribbling I notice that there are
heavy beads of cream hanging on to the edge,
same as me.

Instead of wiping them up
I head outside and light a
cigarette.

There is a young couple
contented with their quick,
cellophane wrapped sandwiches,
Doritos and sodas,
a fine picnic supper.

I sit so that the wind is in my face
and the smoke blows over my shoulder
into their suppertime soiree.

Upon my exit
they shoot me a baleful
look.

I earned this one.

And, I gratefully
return
home.



*

-JBClaywell

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