#63. THE TYPEWRITER POET

 

#63. THE TYPEWRITER POET 

 A sound draws me today. Old fashioned. Mechanical. 

 Ah. I find a very young poet at a tiny table clacking away with intense concentration on a white manual typewriter. A simple handmade sign reads POEMS. His offer: to write you a poem, on the spot, and then type it on a sheet of paper for you to cherish. The cost: a donation. 

 A passerby asks, "Do you need a permit to do this in the Park?" He replies, "I don’t think so. No one here has a permit," gesturing to the vendors of cannabis, clothes, jewelry, and today a bake sale to support Ukraine. 

                "Well,” I chime in, “there are rules. But since Covid hit                         there are no rules.” 

 He smiles and continues typing. I should have asked for a poem about rules.