A woman with an old Olivettion the street corner. Brunswick and Bloor, across from
Future Bakery. She wore a floral dress of orange and
pink flowers on black. I wasn't sure she was real,
her sign read, "Prose Services." A man had
paid, and she was typing.
Surely a prose poem with the heat of the city's
pavement coiling in tendrils of green ivy, sweat
dampening the pulse points under her dress. Her
hair, red and swept back like Lucille Ball's, her lips full
and dark as an espionage spy.
What can a writer offer passersby for a few
coins in the cap?
I almost asked to take a picture of her clacking
away on the old typewriter keys, but thought she'd
charge me, demand toll from the faint
woman disappearing into the moon
hanging in half
over the alley.
Nice poem, Brenda! I can imagine the scene. It reminds me of the rare literate sailor on British Navy sailing ships who would pen letters for his fellow sailors, mostly letters to families and sweethearts.
ReplyDeleteThanks. Yes, Larry, it was like that. And perhaps she was hand typing a love letter for the man to give to his sweetheart. Retro style.
ReplyDelete