Anywhere but here

I sit in blank,
with no wording.

Language is what’s lost.
What I need is another,

Perhaps, I should leave the country,
and acquire a new vocabulary.

How lovely,
to write poetry,
from a charming french cafe.

For now, this empty,
Starbucks will
The jazz like rhythm
I yearn for,
will have to come through music.
And the muse,

anywhere but here.


A writer just sat in front of me
I knew he looked familiar as soon as
he walked through the door.

He recognized me as well.
With a dispirited look and an outfit composed of
different shades of brown.

Dark brown vest, light brown shirt.
light brown jeans,
and light brown dockers.

White socks are the only contrasting aspect of his outfit.
That and the notepad he is holding
while keenly observing the other people in this starbucks.

Pen in hand and looking for inspiration.
I wonder if he knows
that he is currently my muse.

As he sips his coffee,
nothing is being written down on this notepad.
Perhaps I should stop
for a second,
and let him write.

I wonder where his thoughts are.
Are the people in this starbucks
too boring,
too content,
to draw any inspiration from.

Something has already
been written down on his

On the first page.

From another day
I suppose.
It looks like a poem.