I decided to write what I'm most familiar with: a girl who writes.
Girl at the Café
She sits erect, a cloudy-eyed confection in simple back tights. Her sweater-dress is a sight for sore eyes in a room too full of lonesome eyes and the steady twang of a guitar strum. The dated page is almost full, she’s been writing a train-wreck of mixed verse all day. She’s still nowhere near an arrival, one expectation past expiration and still heady with desire. The sky is whistling its moon-signal between wooden venetian blinds and table clutter. The ice-clink of her coffee calls for drink as she bends her head, a silent prayer to Kerouac and Ginsberg.
She sits center-seat,
Mess of café-talk and words;World outside the world.