One day I will be a real poet
I will wake up from my customary 40-minute nap
Sometime late in the night
Of my tragic angst-ridden day.
I will then don my black turtleneck
Black pants and black boots
And carefully place my black beret on my head
Before exiting my untidy poverty-stricken flat
The nightlife of the coffeehouse is where
I learn how to snap
And snap I will.
Mindlessly snapping to the monotone poem
Of a fellow black clad bohemian
I will slowly sip my latte
Inhaling the pretentious steam
Of others' lattes while we subtly
(But not too subtly)
Shuffle our notebooks and pens
I will bid them adieu in the early morn
And we'll rise from the table
And return to our respective tortured existences
Of furious scribbling in tattered notepads
And calling it "art"
I'll be a real poet