Bukowski had his bar stool
the last seat at the end,
Shakespeare had his room
in the back of the theatre,
Thoreau had his cozy pond estate
among rural Boston trees,
this egregious little amateur has his table
in the corner of a book store.
It has everything I could ever need:
bitter and sweet coffee,
the company of every great soul
to ever slow dance with a pen,
the graceful movements of strangers
with endless mysteries I’ll never know,
some woman in a red sweater
that I can fall in love with
while she flips through used poetry.
This is my castle,
my muse,
my blank canvas.
If I could instantly travel
through any breath of time,
any scene of space,
anywhere in the whole of existence:
I’d go
maybe half a foot to the left
for just a little more leg room.
Of Poems and Places 