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
© P&ZPublications
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 8:58 PM UTC
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
© P&ZPublications
I was angry. I'm sorry.
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