A booth, a book, a ball-point pen,
a sip of Diet Coke,
some music playing softly while
rain covers like a cloak.
It’s the first time she’s dined alone
with food that isn’t fast,
and (you won’t be surprised) she’s sad
the solitude won’t last.
The food is good, but truth is that
it’s words on which she feeds.
A booth, a book, a ball-point pen
is everything she needs.
*As part of National Poetry Month, I’m writing at least one poem each day in April. This is the third poem.