French music
espresso swirls in my Chai
the rumble of conversation
clink of glass and silver
lean in to the chair back
admiring the view of a blank page
paper has poetic potential

when a voice crackles
severing my reverie
shredding my illusion
my carefully crafted imaginarium
I lean forward and type, suddenly
cringing, squinting, now
conscious of the fluorescent light
overhead and worker bees
buzzing in an office next to mine

my cup is made of paper
my music on a radio
my silver and glass only
kindly ambient noise
recorded by some lucky chap
really reclining
in a cafe somewhere
where they grind the coffee beans
fresh behind the counter

sad to think
my desk is no magic carpet
so much for a memory
of a Paris cafe