I can still remember that day
in San Francisco, on Columbus
just down from City Lights Books,
a young man sitting on a milk crate
another in front of him on which
he perched an old typewriter.
“A dollar buys you a poem”
he said with a mix of hope
and resignation, his fingers poised
over the worn keys, their letters
fading as was his ribbon.
I produced a bill and he set
to typing, although I do not
recall his words, when he
was done I handed him a five.
He seemed in shock, so I said
“I am a fellow poet, but my
Royal Standard died years ago.”
He was about to reply when he
saw another potential customer
and I moved on down the block.

First published in Little Free Lit Mag, Issue 1, October 2024
https://littlefreelitmag.com/l-faber/