Poems For Sale

The poet sat hunched over his typewriter, fingers hammering the keys like a pianist playing a broken tune. The street busied itself around him but he was unmoved, lost in the rhythm of the machine.

 

A sign on the table read: "Poems For Sale."

 

People passed. Some spared him a glance. Others ignored him.

 

Then a man in a tailored suit stopped. He checked his watch, an anxious look on his face, then looked down at the poet. "How much?"

 

"Five bucks," the poet said without looking up.

 

The man hesitated. "Alright," he said, fishing out a bill. "Write me something I need to hear."

 

The poet nodded, fed a fresh sheet into the typewriter, and began to write. The sounds of the city faded. For a moment, it was just the clicking of the keys, the sigh of paper rolling through the platen.

 

A minute later, he ripped the sheet free and slid it across the table.

 

The man read:

 

"time is a drunk

stumbling through back alleys,

spilling his pockets,

leaving behind

loose seconds

for the desperate to snatch up

and call their own."

 

The man smiled, handing over a five-dollar bill. "Thank you!”

 

The poet just shrugged.

 

The man folded the paper, slid it into his pocket, and walked away, checking his watch again.

 

The poet rolled a new sheet into the typewriter and waited for his next customer.

 

Done