Star Bucks

A man sits alone at Starbucks,

Writing out his will.

Quill affized to the paper,

Conjunction-junction lined up for a kill

But hastening to this will

Is a cold mug at his windowsill

So cold it sends a chill,

Over its crusted, brown halo

At the rim.

Onlookers look on,

Into the space beyond,

And further into the depths

Of nothing.

I watch the people,

The same I've seen at the steeple

And the same you might see

If you look.

Look at his book,

Look at her nook,

See his stack,

Check out her rack.

Watch him scratch way too low,

And hopes no one sees him show,

A little too much;

An arrow without a bow.

Gaze at the pining lady,

Searching for Slim Shady,

But finding O'Grady,

With disappointment in her brow.

Now stare at the man with his quill,

His face chiseled and still,

Point poised for the kill,

Of our attention.

This man sits alone at Starbucks,

Each time writing out a new will,

His mug never touches his lips.

Each time words form for the kill.

He always snaps his fingertips,

Each time shaking the same windowsill.

Hoping God might notice.