I have a hard time convincing some folks that modern poetry is not necessarily biographical, and that good poetry manages to be personal even when it is fictional. This is a moment of imaginary conversation between imaginary people in an imaginary coffee shop.
Tall decaf mocha latte
I’m feeling a little short,
he said. Of what? I asked
absently and sipped coffee
still too hot to drink. Of time, money,
inspiration, he said, flinging
hands in the air. Of stature,
he added as he dropped them
in his lap. I eyed him over
the steaming brim. Of stature,
I echoed. Metaphorically speaking,
he answered, shoulders slumped.
The Daily Compost 