At least those who are framed
on a café wall
in Moline, Illinois,
where I stop to refuel
after my hike
from Iowa.
Coffee before me,
my pad blank with words
I try to write
as Poe and Longfellow
and the like
look down from those frames,
mugs superimposed
in their hands.
They playfully imbibe,
enjoying the site
of a wannabe poet
struggling before
this prosodic court.