The Man in the Coffee Shop

There once was a man who wrote a novel on a napkin
That nobody could read,  because you see
The words were so tiny and close together
Sometimes the letters overlapped, or smudged
Creating an ink smear to blot out an entire chapter
His pen ran dry three times, the ink fading out
The only time a word could be deciphered
He wrote this novel in times of both sorrow and joy
The characters were fully fleshed out
The man wrote every morning in the coffee shop
He wrote for years and years, one sentence at a time
Many passed by but nobody saw
Or if they did, they thought he was crazy
Nobody knew that he was creating a world
Out of pen and a fragile napkin
The man wrote this novel
And while works of "art" hang in galleries
Blank canvases, work that takes a minute or less
Red dots and blue lines, no work at all
One day in the coffee shop on the corner
The man's novel was crumpled
And tossed out with the trash

There once was a man who wrote a novel on a napkin
And nobody knew, because they didn't pay attention