The Writing Place

My writing refuge.

At the writing place
I assume attentiveness:
Evanescent steam escapes
my coffee to the open
expanse of the corridor;
from a plastic table I watch
the random movements of a
smattering of people in
festive utilization of
the mall. The hour is late.
Clean up and close up actions
are under way at the shops;
people move resolutely
to the exits--another sip
of coffee embraces me
like the vibrant morning sun.
Lights fade, teenagers giggle
and step lightly in the firm
exuberance of their youth.
I search for thought and meaning
and inspiration to enhance
the import of flowing ink;
the last faint wisps of vapor
rise up over the edge of
the white Styrofoam cup, a
reminder of inner warmth.
Dust pans clatter against a
wine-red floor as corn brooms swish.
For a modicum of time
I maintained a consumptive
vigil at the writing place.


31 Lines
Writer's Cramp
5-19-16