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Poem

I enter the caf é
Hoping to get some writing done, which seems like a cliché
And as I wait for my beverage
I didn't notice that someone had taken a seat near me
When I acknowledged his presence
I noticed his face was filled with a familiarity that I couldn't explain
A familiarity understood once he stated his name was Mark Twain
And I stood there in awe
With the floor in contact with my jaw
Three men shake my hand
And a similar feeling hits me
I don't know them 
Yet I do
"Ernest, Edgar, and Charles, how do you do?" 
Hemingway, Poe, Dickens? 
"Do my eyes deceive?"
"No they do not my friend" said George Orwell
And I shook my head as I disbelieve 
That they stood before me
And then a voice enters the room, yes a voice!
That belonged to the great James Joyce
"What are the odds? That these literary Gods
Blasphemy not intended
Who over the years  have offended and whose popularity has distended
They all looked at one another
Each looking more strange than the other
"We have something to tell you"
"Tell me" I said
"You are dead" 
Said Twain speaking up for the rest
And a jolt travels through my chest
One Two, Clear
As the cafe transforms into a tunnel of white light
The scene goes bright
As the greatest authors in history vanish before me
I awake in a hospital bed with doctors hovering over me
I live with one regret of not saying to them what I desired to say
But one thing is for sure
 I will never forget that day in the cafe

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