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Poetry Prompts

Monday Poetry Prompt: Restaurant

This week let’s write a restaurant poem. It could be about the food, the customers, the ambience. It could be about a fancy place with tuxedoed waiters or a dive where you’re worried about finding a roach in your french fries. It could have nothing to do with the restaurant and just be set there but whatever you put on the menu, post it in the comments below.

About Bartholomew Barker

Bartholomew Barker is one of the organizers of Living Poetry, a collection of poets and poetry lovers in the Triangle region of North Carolina. Born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, he worked in Connecticut for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough where he makes money as a computer programmer to fund his poetry habit.

Discussion

16 thoughts on “Monday Poetry Prompt: Restaurant

  1. Sitting at a window seat
    in the restaurant before time
    savoring what will be starlight
    waiting for the first dawn of the first day
    waiting for the creation of something separate, night
    when a preview of what may come to be passed by
    I asked the waiter what it was
    a salad of cut alfalfa, onion grass and cold watermelon rind he replied
    I have no idea what a salad is
    but I can’t wait to find out

    Liked by 2 people

    Posted by Chris Clarke | September 15, 2022, 10:47 PM
  2. Taking Chances

    She goes to her local restaurant
    with no bookings
    all days of the week
    Most days she is accommodated
    Busy days, she refuses to leave
    Instead
    she keeps waiting
    hoping someone, some group
    take pitty on her
    and willing to share a table
    She will repay such kindness
    by taking care of the bill
    big or small
    She doesn’t care
    The money is so insignificant
    comparing to the company she gets
    The only company she gets

    Liked by 2 people

    Posted by Cassa Bassa | September 14, 2022, 6:11 PM
  3. The Woman Owned Cafe

    The small cafe was empty
    but for two women and myself,
    a cashier, sturdy, carefree,
    flat-shoed waitress,
    swishing a cloth across the table top
    with flair.
    I paid and tipped the moiety;
    Three women, free,
    golden in prosperity,
    as country set aside,
    with freedom grown sleek,
    like the hair of a virgin
    given in marriage
    before she is twelve.
    I do not carry my Grandmother’s name
    Whose blood
    wet this ground for me?.

    Liked by 2 people

    Posted by ts19page | September 12, 2022, 10:17 AM

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