Sep. 2, 2015


9/2/15 Sun umbrella. Table. Typewriter. Index cards. Small bowl. Small Board labelled "Poetry".

"The Metropolitan Museum of Art is my destination. It is already 3:00 pm and it closes at 5:30 pm. I should not stop" I think as I slow and lock eyes with the young man seated behind the table.

"So you write poetry for money?" I inquire.
"No it's free unless you want to give something," his reply.
""So how does this work?" I quiz.
"You are my writing prompt, my muse. You give me one word and I type a poem." the Hunter college creative writing student responds.

"Joy," I prompt. He takes the index card and rolls it into the typewriter as the once familiar rhythm of distinctive key clips begins.
"What's your name and what does it mean?" I question.
"Alexis. Helper of God."
"Can I have an index card?"
"Sure," he replies as he bends to pull one from his stack.
He types. I write and doodle.
"I need one more line" he quips before hitting a few more keys, rolling it out of his typewriter and handing it to me.
"Will you please read it to me?" I ask.

setting sail
towards fringes
of beyond
cascading crescendos
airy space where
the sun's rays
all memories
where the
moment is where I

"Thank you Alexis. Can I read mine to you?"
"Sure," he consents.
"Alexis. Helper of God. Living Word Artist. May Light always find you and radiate through you in your darkness."
We exchange our cards and hugs.
"Sign my table, please."
"JOY" I write and he smiles.