My coffee shop muse

is delinquent.

I study the black tin ceiling

as I wait—stood up again.

I stare at my computer,

eavesdropping on other couples,

happy couples

so unlike my muse and me.

I put new stickers on my laptop

and order a chai latte.

All fancied up with

nothing to write.

I listen to the soft jazz,

study the hipster Edison Bulb lighting,

and wonder if there is

a Tinder for muses.

I would swipe right.