It takes a certain kind of laziness to be a poet. Someone too active is taking pictures from a moving vehicle, producing imagery that’s no more than a blur. Someone too slow is grabbing at a fly, never managing to catch anything in hands. Someone just right is the person laying in bed at night, unsure if the thought they’d explored like a dream instead of sleeping is worth the cost of comfort, which is rare, less common company than contemplation.

 Proper Poet proffers prospective poem to possible putrefaction. Rolls over in bed. Anything worth writing will be remembered, have no issue surviving sleep.

Poet wakes up with an empty head. There’s no better feeling for a body. Oblivion into pure existence is an invigorating shift.

Having ridden that buzz throughout morning routine, Poet, clean and fed, collapses into unmade bed with an idea to relax. It’s hours until work but feels like responsibility is directly at hand; Poet, thinking of anything they’ve forgot, recalls some of the essence but none of the construction of last night’s thought. The pieces are there but scattered, a puzzle that Poet struggles with. A lot.

Unsuccessful, Poet arrives at his job as a waiter. More people than usual, packed into the chic little restaurant, all new faces, too. Food, of course, as terrible as ever; such is the power of a ‘positive’ review.

Poet read it. Amateur stuff. All the words were already chewed, nothing fresh or new, just mush.

Poet uses more creativity than that accidentally. Even something as mundane remembering food orders is done fantastically by Poet, drawing from that preference personality traits; certain foods say certain things about people. Extra sauce? That person can’t ever let live. Asking for no tomatoes shows a subserviance to the inner-child, and so on. Every specification inspires a reflexive observation.

Engaging in inanity is Poet retaining sanity, keeping creativity within sight at all times, that landmark, central to identity, is the key to keep from getting lost in the sameness like that of the restaurant’s miniscule menu; though subject to daily change, it’s an ersatz variety. Baked, fried, sliced, pied; potato every time.

Poet sets down plate. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“I’ve never seen a waiter look like that.”

Poet turns back toward the solo-diner. “Like what?”

“Like they wanna spit on the food they just served.”

Poet smirks. “That’s the cook’s job.” Raised eyebrows; realization of having said something dumb, “I’m sorry, that was -”

“Don’t worry about it. I appreciate the banter.” A gesture at the opposite, empty seat. “Usually it’s a hard time getting people to really talk to me.”

“Oh, no – I didn’t really mean that. The chef doesn’t – didn’t -”

“I know what you said but I got what you meant. Sit, please,” Repeated movement alongside request, “I’ll cover the tip for any tables you miss.”

Poet gets comfortable in chair, adjusting to the pressure of coworker’s looks on back. “What’d you wanna talk about?”

“This place,” Mouthful of mush swallowed, throat cleared, “You’re the only one here not impressed. And you’ve been here the longest – I can tell, they all want to say something but haven’t – so my guess is you have knowledge that’s not readily apparent. Which would be of interest to a potential investor.”

“You’re right about a few things there, but I’m not in the business of knowing much. I feel like I know a lot, but that’s nothing beneficial to you.”

“Meaning?”

“If money could talk you’re what it would sound like. I barely speak that language.”

“Yet you understand. I’m a Mogul looking to branch out, possibly franchise this business. It speaks for itself in most regards, but not for you. Fill in that gap for me.”

“How I feel about this place?” Mogul’s nod is Poet’s reassurance, “Well I like potatoes. They’re fine. But not divine, not worth all this time and effort cause it ends up just being a child’s game of dress-up. Pretending, which is fine as long as it’s not boring. But this is. Sleep inducing, even. Did you know that melatonin is the secret ingredient in this genre of food?”

Mogul puts down fork. “What do you do in your free time?”

Poetry as puzzles. Complexity made palatable to the public. Mogul’s idea to print Poet’s work piecemeal, in separately packaged pieces, brings in more money than either one of them think possible. Bookstores across the nation, the frontline in a hard-fought battle to keep words in stock, are flocked by forces eager to prove their intellectual chops.

A true cultural phenomenon, Mogul said, and Poet has never been more pleased. Complaints surface about the inability to finish a legible poem from any combination of the pieces, but the production does not stop. People will understand eventually, Mogul said, and Poet has never been more of a believer. 

Hands over every draft, every slight breeze of an idea. Truly thorough work, Poet digs up entire mind. Nothing left behind except a single compromise to the purity, as Poet hadn’t ever been able to recall the night before meeting Mogul. Even so, they’re mentally hacking away at it when interrupted by the chime of the door.

The inability to manuever efficiently through large space coupled with the recent move into mansion makes it take a minute to get there. Poet, thinking there’d be more sound from somebody made to wait, opens door, expecting just porch. 

But instead of empty space, in front of Poet is Beauty incarnate. Shaking a rather ugly box that Poet recognizes as a collector’s set. “Big fan.”

“Do I know you from somewhere?”

“Maybe. Bet if I say no you’ll still invite me in.” The sex is as fast as it happens. After, but still in bed, Beauty lightly touches Poet’s head. “Will you write about me?”

“What?”

Beauty grabs the box, holds it high then tilts it so contents spread all around. “They’re your words. Make something of them.”

“Definitely.” Fifteen, twenty, Poet’s hands are full of print-outs; mind empty.

Beauty dresses while Poet lies, still, frozen in frustration, hard at work trying to figure anything out. “Having a hard time?”

“It’s just…it’d all make sense if I could work out this one line.”

“Keep trying.” Beauty laughs mercilessly, leaving poetry behind.

End

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