With the toss of her mossy hair
“So, why are you a poet?”
A breath of indignation releases from
My mind races with the foolish question
presented at the edge of the sticky café table.
Gazing out the window upon fallen leaves
and clouds holding back tears,
I juggle adjectives and phrases to
describe the fading scene.
The tap of feet against
The singing tree-tops brimming with abandoned
The purpling of the man's finger tips as he lights his last
The plume of smoke that dissipates in the
My hands ache to find solace in an
old landscape too far gone to
My eyes water at the thought of having
My ears ring with the fear of not
hearing those restless words once
My lips tremble with the last taste of a long ago
My nose catches a glimpse of a long-lost
My heart aches at the notion of others not
being able to feel the same as I
I shift my gaze back to the waitress’s impatient stare.
“Why are you not?”