In the corner booth, a poet scribbles,
a napkin filled with lines, half-songs, half-whispers,
while another stares into a cold cup of coffee,
lost in thoughts swirling like cream, dreaming.
I watch them mingle like ink in water,
each verse a ripple, each pause a deep inhalation,
as metaphors rise like steam from their teas,
waiting to bloom like flowers on a vacant lot.
Outside, the world honks and hurries,
cars racing like poetry set to a fast tempo,
but here, the ticking clock slows into stanzas,
time folding neatly, like pages in a book.
One poet suggests we write about rain,
the other laughs, “It’s too cliché!” –
but isn’t every drop a tiny universe,
a testament to being alive in the moment?
Suddenly, the door swings open,
and in struts the uninvited muse,
a whirlwind of breath and wild ideas,
tossing phrases like confetti in the air.
They pause, they listen, then dive into verse,
the café transformed into a stage, a canvas,
where each laugh is a line, each silence a rhyme,
and the ordinary becomes poetry’s luminous truth.
As I sip my tea, half-watching, half-writing,
I realize in this simple café gathering,
poets are like stars, scattered yet bright,
each one illuminating the dark with a spark.