In this untitled poem, a cafe poet struggles to justify the last hour and a half she spent staring at a wine rack.

It’s good to have this time to write

each week; not waiting ’til the time is right

but sitting down and spitting out some rhymes.

I’m of the opinion that it’s a sin to have no discipline,

so this time has a lot of merit. But I think that I could bear it

much better if I could just think of something the f**k to write.

…

I did draw a pretty nice picture of a wine glass.