A Pavement Poet

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yesterday I handed over
A sheaf of my unread poems
To the pea-vendor at the street corner
He took it with a chuckle
Untinged with malice
And said
At least now, Sir,
Your poem will be read.

I think of all those people
Who buy the salted peas
And hold the warm paper-cones,
With my poetry on the inside
Some notice, some do not
And I flatter myself to think
That one considers it a bonus
With his 5 rupees worth

Stopping on his way home,
He reads the poem
Puzzled and perhaps amused
Then wiping the stains off his fingers
He drops the greased paper,
Which flutters down the pavement
Till it is picked up
By a willing passer-by
 

Pocketing my 5 rupees
I walked away
Musing on what pea-vendor said
To me his unintended barb
Was no barb at all,
For I realize,
And without rancour, accept
That I am just another pavement poet.