It's been a while since I've
Written to you, my reader,
So today I should go searching
For some inspiration.

Maybe I'll drive to Carol Park
And watch the stay-at-home
Mothers pour out their joys
To one another,
And I'll write you a sonnet
About enjoying your life
Rather than taking it for granted.

Or I could walk through
The local antique shop
Where I would tell you about the
Rusty old straight blades,
Or the dusty bookshelves
Where I search for Irish poetry.

Then I could visit my
Local tobacconist where I would
Relate to you the musty aroma
Of thousands of cigars
That have been worked
Into the carpet.
A place where old men
Like to go to talk about
Their wives and the
Upcoming football season.
Meanwhile, I'd watch as
A newborn adult curses,
Burning his fingers as he
Tries to light his very first cigar.

These are all the places
I could go to gather inspiration.
Instead, I'll just sit here
On this old leather sofa,
In the same coffee shop,
Drinking the same espresso
I drink every Friday morning.

Here I'll keep my same routine,
Writing to you, the only person
Who cares enough to read
About all the things I could do
This morning, but don't need to.
All because you, my reader,
Will be perfectly content
With the product of my imagination.