In the Company of Poets

The threadbare jeans
and coffee-stained pullover
proclaim my profession
as much as the dancing pen
and pad of foolscap.

The pennies in my pocket
are never enough for a tip,
so I arrange them by my saucer
in connect-the-dot portraits
to entertain the waitress.

She'll understand.  I've seen her
scribbling stanzas on the backs
of order tickets, pink tongue tip jutting
from the corner of her mouth
while she sifts words
for a golden phrase
to flawlessly describe--

--the woman sitting by the door
tearing perfume samples
from a magazine,
swiping them on her wrists

--her friend, who teases that
she'll have to rub her arms
beneath her husband's nose
before he'll notice

--or, perhaps, me,
sitting here
searching for a way
to describe her.

(c)Bill Glose                    2005

published in The Poet's Domain, Vol 22

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA