Speak with an accent, 
as if your tongue had been soaked 
in vinegar, as if your teeth 
had been nibbling ice and cheese.

Roll on the surface of this bed 
like a clown sweeping a puddle of light.

Play a folk tune on the violin  
as the old couple dances in the living room.

Collect smooth white pebbles 
by a small pond 
where children search for salamanders, 
the ones glowing red in late summer grass.
                        

The pale gray road lit only by stars.
	Ted Kooser

It’s something you might expect 
a couple of Hobbits to walk down, 
nearly invisible in their elven cloaks, 
but here I am, setting up shop 
at the corner, hoping the traffic 
picks up. I’ve got short poems 
for sale, baskets of them, picked 
fresh, right off the poetry bush. 
I got the idea from a friend
who edits a poetry mag —
a journal she calls it —
that publishes work about 
the useful arts, like plumbing 
and carpentry. I sent her a dozen 
short pieces about meditating 
at the ocean’s edge. Not for us, 
she wrote, but quite dreamy 
in their own way. 
You could sell these on a night 
when the pale gray road is lit 
only by stars. She didn’t tell me 
she stole the line from Kooser, 
but still, I thought it was a great idea. 
I hand-lettered a sign, with prices 
up to a hundred poems, 
and I’m hoping the customers spend time 
looking for when the break kicks in. 
It never does - one poem, 8 dollars, 
ten poems 80 bucks, 90 poems, 720. 
When they stare and count 
on their fingers, it’s going my way. 
When they start to laugh, 
I know I’ve closed the deal. 
Sometimes, for repeat customers, 
I throw in a haiku or two, 
but I wink and ask them not to 
tell their friends. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.