A young, bearded man
sitting on a stool
behind a cardboard box, covered with a cloth
typing on an old, black typewriter
On a sign, the handwritten words:
On the cardboard box, covered with the cloth, in front of the black typewriter you notice little triangles of folded up yellowing paper (the only thing I’m still wondering where he got). You wait a few seconds, survey the area, approach the man and say
reaching for a triangle, looking him in the eyes.
is his smiling answer.
Your lips move into a replying half-smile, you take the triangle and move away. Unfolding the paper you try and remember how it was folded (and promptly forget) then read the few lines.
You read it again. Something inside you shifts. You read it a third time. You turn, to glance at the bearded man, but he is intently typing and does not look up.
You put the paper in your pocket (not triangled, but folded haphazardly) and walk home, warming it with your hand. As you do, you wonder why you haven’t read poetry in such a long time. What happened? When did you stop? And why? Because now suddenly you feel as if you need more, you need to dig up all those “Feuilles Mortes” and Rumis, Pessoas and Keats and dive into their words so perfectly strung together and sigh as you realize that yes, you actually do like poetry. And isn’t it a wonderful thing.