Paris Café Writing

Moon falls over a sidewalk café

and I write in a slow drip of words.

Espresso tries to shake synapses awake

as I scribble on a lonely page.

Two painters pontificate at the next table

while a poem leafs out in the dark.

In the lulls of silence I can almost hear

the faint music at my core.

Hunger drives me from deep inside;

have not eaten all day. I weep

for every artist, striving down solitary

streets of the heart.