In this untitled poem, a cafe poet struggles to justify the last hour and a half she spent staring at a wine rack.
It’s good to have this time to write
each week; not waiting ’til the time is right
but sitting down and spitting out some rhymes.
I’m of the opinion that it’s a sin to have no discipline,
so this time has a lot of merit. But I think that I could bear it
much better if I could just think of something the f**k to write.
I did draw a pretty nice picture of a wine glass.