She sits at her booth towards the end of our street

selling stories to each stranger she meets.
Her fingers are stained by the pen in her hand,
a purveyor of song, surveying her land.
Her prices are stagnant, but they hold true.
A steady hand had written in blue:
‘A dollar a line,
a quarter a rhyme.’
All she asked was for a moment of our time
She does what she loves for a price;
her life was a gamble left up to the dice.
Unfortunately though, there’s no luck
when you’re selling a poem for a buck.

Still, I wish things had been more clear.
When that woman left our pier.
It had been the day that I had finally brought my dollar,
worked up the courage, plucking at my collar.
I waited there with a hopeful ignorance
my vision obscured by the smoke from cigarettes.

There was no sign of her, but I still stayed.
I couldn’t help but feel a fair bit played.
But still I stayed there, day after day
never, ever, getting the chance to pay.