by JC Roberts

Sitting at the desk, trying to write.  
The words want to come but they’re out of their element. 
I’m outta my element at a desk 
Blue jeans and boots at a black-tie affair. 
I can’t write at a desk, and they know it. 
Waiting to nibble on finger sandwiches 
I smile, politely, caressing my pen 
My words mind is on fried wieners and sauerkraut 
and the barmaid with the bite mark scar above her right breast. 

I need a bar top to write on! 
A footrail to brace my trembling leg on  
Let the other foot tap the rhythm on the worn wooden floor. 
Draft beers and shots to wash away the mangled lines  
from that blood-curdling sterile desk scene I escaped from. 

I need to lean into my work over a steaming bowl of sausage-and-spinach soup. 
Let the aromas ignite my senses. 
Compose as bar calls come in over the lyrics 
Half a tray of white. 
Two slices of red. 
Did you see the score of the Pittsburgh game? 
Setting me up for the next goal line rush and the end of another line. 

I need to close my notebook, light a smoke, and sigh heavy like after first-time sex. 
Letting my creation incubate. 
I need to laugh at the question, Whadda ya writing down there, Rembrandt? 
And not correct or be corrected. 
I just want to be a Poet! 
Praised with Pilsner and Pierogi 
And the satisfaction of Prose.  
Buy a round for the house. 
Sing along with the songs of my Pennsylvanian Hills. 

I need a bar top to write on.