Annie Wyndham
They gravitate there because
the coffee is deliciously foreign,
the window uncluttered,
a fresh flower on every table.
Here sit the town poets, writers, playwrights,
pens flexed, concentration intact,
sipping espresso,
awaiting the elusive muse.
Jack slips from behind the counter
to wipe a table, empty the ashtray,
collect the wadded-up, ink-soaked napkin
from a patron filling his leaky fountain pen.
Almost noon.
Jack quietly removes the soothing Vivaldi tape
and inserts the Second Street Chaotic Band,
jarring the little zone of complacency.
From the corner of his eye, he watches
as two pens freeze in mid-air.
The writer at Table 7 grimaces, his train of thought wrecked
by the strident strums of an insistent banjo.
He gathers his papers and pen and heads for the door.
The poet at Table 3, slumped in deep thought over a cup of cold
cocoa, suddenly deprived of a blissful serenity
mistakenly assumed as part of the decor,
stalks out, mumbling,
into the rainy morning.
"Well," says Jack, rinsing out the coffee pot. "If they sit here all day
just thinkin', we won't make nothin', will we?"
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