It's 9:06 p.m. I already bought
a writing book, Wild Mind
by Natalie Goldberg at the Borders
just a couple of blocks away.
It will be closed in six days.
I'm sitting at a small round table
at a Barnes & Noble Cafe,
where they proudly brew and serve
Starbucks coffee, writing poems,
taking the occasional sip of my venti
Chai Tea Latte, with soymilk, no whip.
I'm almost directly beneath a round
Bose speaker set in the ceiling,
which is drizzling a live Willie Nelson album
down on me. It's got a jazz vibe, and
I think I also hear Norah Jones.
I try to write a good poem, but
my mind keeps wandering to my dream
of being a Hollywood screenwriter.
I think I'd be good at product placement.
It works in a big action movie,
but it's killing my poem, choking it
on all those capitalized words.
I'm sorry if you read this far.
I'd refund your money if you'd paid anything.
* * * * *
This poem was written in response to a prompt at Poetic Asides to write a time of day poem.