For the love of poets

(Published Impspired Magazine)

I sat Paris café, Seine-faced,
strapped to a chair
meant for waste and cliché.
Among the artists. The poets.
The know-its. And dreamers.
All of us
sitting alone.

Where gathered
the thinkers, the fretters.
Do-betters.
Undiscovered no-namers.
The walk-of-shame lovers.
The talkers
sipping last night away.

The real. The irrational.
Referencing
green-leaf-arboreal.
Laying claim to mercurial,
mulling masterpiece
strokes with a pen.
Drinking in spin.
Folks of same vein.
This international blend
of chagrin
and insane.