Twenty

I recognize you, Writer.

You're a perfect portrait
     of prosaic potential.

You're not writing poems over there
     like I am, about you, over here,
  but you're definitely up to something.

It's the glasses, I think,
     or the curly hair, graying
          like the whiskers in your shadow.
It's your stylish shirt and tee,
     intentionally worn to look chill.
You're leaned back, casual,
     because you have time to kill.

Your office is under that awning.
     Today.
     Maybe tomorrow you'll look just as serious
          in a coffee shop
                    (You like it as black and viscous
                         as they'll make it.)
          or park or --

Oh! A phone call!
     Hello. You're fine. You're just --

          Watching a movie?!
                                            Trainspotting.

I completely misjudged you, I guess.