Writing a Poem At Panera's
by Wilda Morris

I sit and sip hazelnut coffee and wait
to see what comes off the tip of my pen.
No one else at Panera is writing
this morning. No one is reading Proust
or Edgar Allen Poe. No one is studying
the Bhagavad-Gita or Walt Whitman.
No one is unwrapping a pearl necklace,
silk scarf, or engagement ring.
My pen does not know what to write.
I wish the young man in the booth
near the back were whispering
I love you to the young woman
in the red suit and high heels.
I imagine her saying, I love you, too.
I hope they will live happily ever after
whether together or apart. But today,
like me, they are silently sipping coffee,
thinking their own private thoughts.
They are not even sitting in the same booth.



 

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