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.