The Poet's Cafe

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.