Poem Shop

On a hot August afternoon, Astor Place is bustling.  Everyone’s happy to be leaving work.  There’s rhythm and swagger to the going-home movements of the sidewalk crowd.  Next to a man selling crepes from a cart, beside a man selling hot dogs from a cart, I see a rickety, wooden, folding table with its varnish coming off.  On top of the table sits a black Underwood typewriter.  Hanging shabbily from the front of the table is a creased cardboard sign that reads: “Poem Shop, $5."  Behind the table, perched on a tiny, folding stool is the proprietor of the poem shop.  Naturally, I stop. 

Hair like Susan Sontag's or Jorie Graham's, a young girl is reading when I step up to the, um, counter.  I pay my five dollars and am asked the question, “What do you want your poem to be about?”  A bird, please.

She takes a piece of paper out of the rolling wire cart next to her (the Poem Shop is mobile), folds it in half, tears it in half, and sticks half in the typewriter.  I cross the sidewalk, put my bags down, lean on the iron fence, and settle in for who knows how long.  The sun shines.  Car horns honk.  I watch a woman order a crepe.  I watch the man make the crepe for the woman.  I watch Poem Shop shopgirl typing, thinking, then typing some more.  The sun shines some more.  She takes the poem out of the typewriter.  I guess she’s done.

I walk over slowly, not wanting to pressure her.  I reach for the poem, thinking that’s it, that's what I get.  But, no, when you buy a poem at the Poem Shop on Astor Place you get a recitation too. 

Read this one out loud.