The Foolish Question Answered

With the toss of her mossy hair

she asks,

“So, why are you a poet?”

A breath of indignation releases from

my nostrils.

My mind races with the foolish question

presented at the edge of the sticky café table.

Gazing out the window upon fallen leaves

and clouds holding back tears,

I juggle adjectives and phrases to

describe the fading scene.

The tap of feet against

pavement.

The singing tree-tops brimming with abandoned

nests.

The purpling of the man's finger tips as he lights his last

cigarette.

The plume of smoke that dissipates in the

sunlight.

My hands ache to find solace in an

old landscape too far gone to

touch.

My eyes water at the thought of having

none.

My ears ring with the fear of not

hearing those restless words once

more.

My lips tremble with the last taste of a long ago

settlement.

My nose catches a glimpse of a long-lost

memory.

My heart aches at the notion of others not

being able to feel the same as I

do.

I shift my gaze back to the waitress’s impatient stare.

“Why are you not?”