Tuesday Morning at Tate Street Coffee

So this morning I was talking to a friend, telling her that I was just going to sit down and relax for a while and she recommended I sit down at Tate Street Coffee, a coffee shop basically on campus. So I did. And I wrote a poem because that's what poets do at coffee shops, right?


Tuesday Morning at Tate Street Coffee
She said it’s something a poet should do,
sit by the window and view the couple
smoking on the bench grin against
the clouded sky, a canvas for the fall
colors. So I let the hot chocolate go
cold, and I neglect the muffin wrapped in
plastic. The man behind the register smiles
at long-haired blond who steps up to order
a warm latte and a “Have a nice day,”
that comes with the deal, but feels
more satisfying than warm hands around
a clay cup. I notice the tentative jazz
music. I watch the man in the corner,
pick crumbs off his red shirt and smear
ink on paper, no different from me
at the window, where outside the bench
shifted first to a red-mittened girl
pondering books, then to nothing,
an escaped emptiness, leaking through
the ever opening door.

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In truth, I think I was the one who told her that poets should write poetry at a coffee shop, but that isn't nearly as interesting. Remember, poetry is a form of fiction, nothing more, nothing less. But I did drink hot chocolate (though it didn't go cold) and have a (blueberry) muffin. And there was a couple and a red-mittened girl. But they weren't necessarily doing everything I described, 'cause it's a poem and I can write what I feel like writing. This is definitely a rough draft of this poem, but I like it, so I hope you do too. I feel like it creates an interesting atmosphere, which is something I like to do with my poetry. Let me know what I can do to make it better!