The Writer: Tirtinska


Oodled in through the swing doors his literary mind
A few steps behind his limp fedora, cheap cigar.
The tearoom loungers dressed to the nines and la-di-da
Surveyed with frank disdain, took him in, defined, declined.

Scans them back. “Red angry pustules from a dose of clap.”
Thoughts laced with meander juice. “Know what I’m doing.”
(The story teller’s stock reflex on spotting a trap.)
“I can do this … No probs. I know the way out. Chewing.”
Orders coffee, two week old doughnuts, a cheesy wrap.

Ladies discretely confer deeming themselves refined.
“A dotty old grandpa. Hardly my cup of tea, dear.
What’s he doing? Pulling out a pen and notebook. Ah!
That’s it then. All’s forgiven. And not a bad behind.”

About Ben Naga

The Spirit that graces me with its passing has no name and stems not from thoughts and words, though it gathers them up as it flows, but from feeling.

Posted on October 8, 2020, in Poetry, Tirtinska and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink. 7 Comments.

  1. I love this! Actually read it a couple of days ago (it made me smile 🙂) but I didn’t have time to comment then. Sorry I’m slow getting back here. You set the scene up vividly, with your usual skill….not to mention your insight into human behavior. Thanks for that smile, Ben

    Liked by 1 person

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