Maisha Z.

Johnson

mad poet’s challenges

i go into a café i’ve never visited before,

approach the sour faced man behind the counter,
who eyes the latptop i’m carrying.
you’re a writer, he says with a sneer.
yes! i chirp. how did you know?
he sweeps his arm across all of the heads
bent over computer screens.
you’re all writers, he says.
yes, i say, wanting to show him my writer’s charm,
we come in bunches, like grapes.
don’t you use your metaphors on me! he shouts,
and his head is a round, red dodgeball.
i duck to avoid it.

i find another café and i think it’s fate:

in the window there’s a sign that says
vacant position: seeking writer
to sit in the corner, looking profound.

i’m settling into the corner when an employee walks up to me.

what are you doing? he asks.
i point to the sign. trying out for the part.
the position has been filled, he says,
and when i try to ask to stay anyway,
he says louder, the position has been filled!
the other employees nod as he escorts me to the door,
even though i’m pretty sure the old white man who comes in
is there for the same reason, and they let him stay.

at the park
i take a seat in the green,
start to unload my writing tools when i hear,
Oh. a woman pushing a stroller has stopped beside me.
my dog was going to pee here, she says,
and both she and the dog are looking down at me
over long, thin noses, waiting.
even the baby is fussing from the stroller,
aware early on that i don’t belong.
i leave the dog’s toilet and
i wander for a while,
trying to find another seat in the green,
but sure i’d choose wrong.
 Maisha Z. Johnson

i end up back home,

where the only person to fill the position
of thoughtful writer
is me.
i’d be anywhere else if else if i could,
but here will always work just as well.