The muse will be with him today.
The coffee shop isn’t on the West Bank or in the Village
or San Francisco, but it holds a good mix of people—
without children— and a long-legged dishwater blonde with glasses.
A Moveable Feast is prominently placed in front of him.
Hemingway’s memoir is a part of him, like the dishwater blonde’s
glasses. He’s never read it, but the book’s energy is equivalent to the
rush of a meteor— one glance at the cover and ideas pop.
Adjacent to the memoir is an extra large coffee-white— 
the staple of all Irish writers like O’Casey—
unless they drank like Behan: the drinker with a writing problem.
He’s covered on that score too: a flask of Irish Whiskey in his bag.
By noon his legal pad is still empty. No worries. If he doesn’t 
manage to strike up a conversation on writing with the dishwater blonde he’ll go home;
plant himself before his twelve hundred dollar
standing desk that will keep him from gaining weight and
free him up to walk around while story ideas gel just like Philip Roth.
Yes, indeed
It’s only a matter of time…