Poems #113 and 114: “I Am a Cliché” and “Aura”

I Am a Cliché

Day after day, I sit
in the café and stare
out the window at soft
drizzle or sunshine and
write love poetry to
the waitresses.

Her apron is stained
with coffee and ketchup in
all the right places.

Alas, it never sells,
and I am the proverbial
starving artist—surrounded
by the inviting aroma of half-
eaten meals—with a cold
coffee in my hand.

© 2015, all rights reserved.



She was
the color
of wind
on a calm
clear day.

© 2015, all rights reserved.


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