The Genius In the corner there’s a man With a notebook and pen He seems all thoughtful, Coffee in hand, He sips his artists drink, Strong black, no milk, Two sugars to help him think, If only he could smoke, He wishes as he works, Thumbing the tin of loose leaf, Tapping the skins against the wood, He really should, Then he’d be really productive, Banning smoking in cafes was so… Counterproductive It was the government, He mused, eyeing the alternative waitress, This place should be entirely anti-establishment, Maybe he should work here, Pack in the corporate bullshit, Turn it around, bet it’s easy to do, Run this place, and others too, And work here in his breaks, Bet he’d get loads done, And he could smoke, Maybe pot too, screw the anti-drug folk, He smiles and sips his Americano, Congratulating himself on a plan well – oh, It’s cold, nevermind, antoher will do He signals the waitress, ‘How many sugars?’ – two. He turns and frowns at the blank page, Hmm, words weren’t coming at all today, He felt so restless, so trapped, In this whole country, his cage, Uncreative, keeping him in servitude, It was so unfair, and just plain rude, No-one even cared, About him and his genius, How he could change the world, With one idea…God it was so tedious! His thoughts were rudely interrupted By a group of teens sitting next to him, He glared as they clattered and created a din, Couldn’t they tell by his notebook and pen? Didn’t their tiny brains know He was a genius at work? His general appearance should tell them so, I mean, he looked the part, With his long hair smart, But carefully swept back, devil may care, He’d specifically made it look that way, So people would know, He was one of the carefree clever folk, Coupled with the white shirt, (top 3 buttons open, casually) And green jumper (it matched the artistic tragedy in his eyes) Over faded old jean, dress shoes, Bright socks, arranged like he’d forgotten People could see them, Oh – and the tattoo’s, Sleeves rolled at half-mast, So people could see the frightfully clever Designs and drawings past his elbows, Hemingway, Blake and some equations, And some sort of reference to – Well he couldn’t quite remember, But that didn’t matter did it? His arms were an external representation, An outward expression, Of his internal self, Obviously. His favourites were on each wrist, The jigsaw pieces that didn’t quite fit, It reminded him never to conform, He knew he’d never belong with the masses, He angled his arms towards the waitress, As she bustled past, all pink hair and piercings, She ignored him, useless bitch, Probably stupid anyway – it’s why she – ‘Oi, you know, your jigsaws don’t fit’ Giggled the schoolyard scum at the next table, He fixed the little twerp with the coldest stare he was able, He dare he interrupt his genius, ‘That’s the point’ – with little effort he snorted, No-one understood him. Why did no-one know He was a genius, He slurped his cold coffee, The blank page taunting him, For the first time doubt crept in, Maybe this atmosphere wasn’t the best for him, Yes that must be it, How could he work in such a din? He packs up his things, Maybe a library, surrounded by his kin, He belonged there, it was his calling, This place was SO mundane and boring, Too few windows, care walls, No, this would not do at all, The library would be better, With its quiet and peaceful halls, Thousands of books, with people like him in them, He smiles as he stands and drains his new cup Yes, he should have known before He was a genius after all.