I grew up with the silly idea That boys would write poetry For the girl in the back of the coffeeshop.
It’s far from romantic The countless times I’ve walked that road, Entered that C- bakery, And rested my elbows on a wobbly table. Once, I twisted my ankle, Caked my jeans in mud and embarrassment. Another time, I fell in a puddle. Nobody helped me up or dried me off. Hundreds of dollars wasted on cheap coffee That only kept me up long enough To realise how low I was.
I wrote poems for boys in the coffeeshop, Adam and all the rest. They didn’t write any for me.