Poetry for a dollar

Friend, I bought it

at the Tenleytown bus stop

in front of Best Buy

from the poet himself,

a soft-spoken man in suit and tie

who stepped up from behind

and made me his offer—

crisp photocopy of a handwritten poem

dated yesterday.


The bus arrived and I hustled on board

with my purchase.

I like the poem about TV and rainbows

but what haunts me still

is the man himself

a poet like me

who thought his work worthy

of strangers’ regard

and cash on the spot


and this:  that poetry could simply

show up at a bus stop

like the school child in uniform,

the elder with bags en route to the store

or the middle-aged woman

who just dropped off her car at the shop.