I sit in cafes,
watching and writing.
Someday I’ll be dead,
but at least I will leave
something behind.
Most of us in the cafes
pretend not to look at each other.
Except when some beautiful
people arrive, then it is
more difficult not to look.
In this place there are
many beautiful people.
And many more idle worshippers.
Sometimes, I sit by the window
in honour of some poet
who died years ago.
But nobody cares about
dead poets these days.
So, I just write, drink my coffee
and move on – waiting for
new words to come.
​