A poet writes of love, but knows it not,
For him it gives conviction, toiling forth.
A waiter's helpful lovestruck heart makes him,
To stare at table six and wonder mayb—
Immediately, the poet looks up.
The waiter looks down.
He sees the then and now of love, in awe
He—coffee soaks his writing pad and pen.
The waiter runs to rescue table six,
"You write all day here. What are you writing?"
"Love. I'm searching for love everywhere. Love."
Da-dum. The waiter blushes, the poet writes.
"Err. A napkin maybe if you need one."
He looks up, "Thanks. I'd like a coffee, please."
His truth erased, he's back at making love,
The napkin sits forgotten, later lost.
The number inside never called or texted.
____
What do you think of this one? I simply wanted to show the irony. Plus! Isn't it fetching for the month of Love?
Contrary to public opinion, I have indeed been writing poetry during the weeks of my silence. I simply hadn't written anything worthy of your eyes until...
Note to self: Write at least ten good poems before commencing a poetry collection to serve as a buffer.
I hope February is treating you well. 💙