Night
A knock
A poet was at my door,
Her eyes were broken and blue
A paper folded, was held tightly in one hand
The other a soapy bucket, a rag hung over its side
A verse for a dollar, she said.
For a dollar more, I'll clean for you
Times are tough, you know
Food will do
I took the small verse. Left the soapy bucket behind
Fed her, gave her what dignity I could
Then let her sad eyes say good-bye
I was a poet, too