This Writer’s Office

The Heart Start Café,
over a cup of not-so-average joe;
The Book Wormhole,
at a tiny table, tucked under a window.

The Pensacola State College library,
in a sterile study room;
in Grammer Park,
under a grove of magnolia blooms.

At Table 32 in Scenic 90 Café,
three in the afternoon,
over a mimosa and the quiche of the week,
surrounding by the tinkling of iced tea spoons.

On my patio, the concrete cool beneath my feet,
or in my bed, with two pillows behind my head;
amongst stacks of books on the floor,
or wooden wind chimes click-clacking next door.

Poolside, on a white deck chair facing controlled water;
at the beach, on a towel for two,
the white noise of the waves
adding atmosphere to the view.

As I have taken on many forms—
a princess in name only,
the queen of a cottage,
even an extrovert (under the spell of Merlot)—
so has my office,
which is wherever I am.

The Cactus Flower Cafe

Gulf breezes,
a sangria with a slice of blood orange,
the placidity of the sound side
at low tide.
Alfresco dining
on the boardwalk,
the music from inside
contained—
as I prefer conversation with my dinner,
not noise.

Chile relleno lightly fried,
plump with rich, creamy cheese and
chicken, tender as rotisserie—
a savory molten lava cake.
Black beans, Spanish rice,
salad vegetables like from a hydroponic garden—
a cool bite from the heat and spice.
Birthday girl,
chilled, caramel flan,
enjoyed with a spoon.

Summer is on the wane
by mid-September,
tourists are gone.
We belong.