The Singer

I sit at the small round table at the coffee shop
with just enough light to write about her
soaring voice, snazzy chords and meaningful lyrics
having traveled so far along lonely slippery roads
but
there's a fellow in front of me
his carefully tended dreadlock birdsnest perched so precariously
on his white trustafarian head
who would possibly hire him
leaning over to look into the artificially
endowed, amply displayed bosom of his companion,
he leans back for an affected laugh of one
unencumbered with work hours, bills to pay,
only to glance down his nose at the tip
jar circulating to his table,
he doesn't pull out his wallet.
I confess,
irritation trumped beauty.