I probably couldn't request a nicer morning,
soft sunlight hitting.
Cold, crisp coffee.
Words scribbled as always.
Backpackers came in first,
rolling through town.
Looking for a hot coffee.
Business men followed them
probably on their way to the office.
I sat in the corner and watched silently.
Not because of my quiet nature -
because my nature is not really quiet.
But because I was sitting alone and it felt odd to be talking with no one next to me.
I kept writing,
because it felt like it had been a while since I sat
and relieved 6-8 poems of pressure off whichever lobe of my brain those come from.
I'm always more fresh and ready to write
bright and early.
I could get myself up.
At night I try to write
and it comes out a jumbled,
but satisfying, mess.
As I finished my coffee,
I was ready to leave,
and answer to obligation instead of myself.