Born to Write in Candlelit Cafés

I am breathing
Aive and seeking
Purpose, worthiness to be alive
I am drinking chai
The spice tingles on my throat

The photograph of a thistle
Hangs above me
The thistle has more right
To be here than I do
My carbon footprint is large

My mind is a tumble of
Computer games and half-
Remembered dreams
And attempts to file everything
In folders tamed by
The proper color

A soft alto sings in the
Background about beauty and destiny
I have one and not the other
You can guess which
I am waiting for my Indian food

I may be no good for this world
But I will never kill myself
He said

I take his words as a benison
I remember them when I need
To take myself less seriously
I know he lives
Because I live

The music has changed
I can see the boy with his
Snare drums
I was born to write
In candlelit cafes

I was born to bring that
Novel into being
Even chased by the cowherd
With the leather whip
Even parceled into chapters
And campaigns

Didn’t I make it eat its tail
Like all good heavenly serpents?

I live, I breathe
And yet I have no
Union to this life
Other than the sculpture
I’ve assembled out
Of scraps of family,
History and friends,
My endless mistakes
And unquenchable hope

Despite my training
And my boring fear
I hope eternal
Like the wind’s soft lick
Of promise

I make a gift of that
To you.