The Napkin Writer

As I slowly make my way

Through the doors

Of the sad and gloom

The waitress comes

And hand me a drink

A drink

Where sorrow looms…

This place is all secluded

From all whom else can see

A place where I

Can sit and doodle

Of stories of life and me…

I need no pads of paper

On the table sits a stack

Of freshly placed

And folded napkins

To pen my life’s heartaches…

I need no tape recorder

I always keep close by

A napkin for my poetic verse

Under the drink

That I have cried…

As the smoke-filled room

Clouds my mind

I write how love has parted

My words are soft and somber

Though inked

From the brokenhearted…

And when my days are ending

My verses turn to songs

Such peaceful words

Telling the world

What it’s like to be alone…

So now I abandon my verses

My words of love and grace

And make my way to the door

To leave this smoke-filled place…

But just when I know

Someone will find

My inks of love

So rash

The waitress comes

And cleans the room

And those napkins

Go in the trash…

But every once in a while

Yet a great little while

You will see some verses shown

They will publish and print

What a waitress has sent

And they mark the poet



2 thoughts on “The Napkin Writer

  1. I’m sorry but I’ve never read a sentence of Keats. I was never a student of writing of any kind. I just picked up a pen one day and here I am.
    This is why I always say there is more deserving writers out here before me. It’s not to say my voice is unworthy, but I respect a person who has dedicated time and money to follow their dreams.
    But I have heard of Keats…


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