A young man, his long, damp-brown hair pulled behind his ears, sat curled over a spiral notebook at a little TV table set up along a high-foot-traffic area. I passed him on my walk to the drug store. He had posted a handmade sign: "custom poems."
But he is gathering his things when I pass him again on my way back. "Is it too late to get a poem?"
"No, it's not too late," he says, pausing, resetting the table. "What do you want the poem to be about?"
I look down. "How about—when you're about to see old friends after not having seen them in a long time."
"Ah. How long has it been?"
"At least 10 years."
"That's a long time. Okay." He sits down and goes to work. He should take his time, alone.
I step away and watch a family take pictures by the city's 20-foot Christmas tree, in front of its white lights' bright confidence in a January evening willing to forget that New Years happen and ever come.
Some 5 minutes later he stands, holding a page ripped from his notebook.
"Read it and let me know if it makes sense." I read. It's a poem written by a young man. "Does it make sense? Do you like it?"
"Yeah. It's good."
"Good. I'm glad you like it."
I hand him $10 and thank him. He appreciates it, he says.
I should have told him how I really feel about seeing old friends, how conflicted I am. But it's a poem by a young man.
