The Marketplace Poet
written by: Sharon J. Clark
@mkscribe
He sat by the fountain from noon to two. His ancient body moulding into the form of a folding chair. Before a small wooden table bearing the tools of his trade – pen, ink, paper.
The output of his labour was built into a pile pinned down by a paperweight coloured red and blue. If people asked to read he would impatiently gesture permission. To enquiries to buy his poetry he shrugged – take what you want. Some people did, with a word of thanks. Some replaced the poems with ten euro notes. Sometimes more. If he was surprised or delighted by the flash of a green hundred euro note he hid it well.
At two o’clock he put the cap on his pen, gathered the paper – both clean and written on – and slipped poems and money into his jacket pocket. He folded the chair and carried it with him as he departed the square.
No one knew where he went. All we knew was that as the clock struck noon the following day, he would be there. The Marketplace Poet offering his wares.
- The Marketplace Poet - April 1, 2024
