Poet Panhandler or Panhandler Poet?

 

 

Three weeks ago, I stationed myself by the Center Street entrance to Fresh Market's parking lot with my "Poet for Hire" sign. Heavy traffic meant a lot of people would see it.
But my hopes that people would stop to inquire about commissioning me didn't pan out. I just got a sunburn, that's all.
So I moved down Center Street to settle under a tree by Hruska's Kolache Bakery. The response was better; I got a few commissions for poems. The foot traffic is good between 6:30 a.m. and Noon.
But as I've shared earlier, ChatGPT can now write rhyming verses just as well as me – so there's no more fun doing it. Not for me. Besides, the Venmo account isn't working anymore.
I floundered around with writing out some long topical verses to display at the kolache place – but people either hurried mindlessly by or stopped to argue with me. All I wanted was some simple appreciation, not a debate.
So, last week, I switched to simple haiku verses. And that did the trick. No more arguments. It only takes 15 seconds to read one, so more people stop to read. And the more obscure I make my haiku, the more often people seem to appreciate it.
In addition, I placed an empty food storage can in front of my wheelchair (yes, I use a wheelchair – mainly because it's more comfortable than a folding chair and easier to transport) and was pleasantly surprised that even people who don't bother to read my haiku still put money in the can. They think I'm a homeless derelict, I guess. What I have come to think of myself as genuinely being is a poet panhandler or a panhandler poet. And please be forewarned that I will include all snarky email responses I receive from the four people I am sharing this with in future posts. So watch your mouse.

What follows is a daily account of how this stunt works out. Let's start with today – Thursday, August 24th. 2023.

I arrived in front of Hruska's Kolaches at 7:03 a.m. this morning. The weather was cool and cloudy.
Hruska's is sandwiched between two pawn shops. It's a tiny place. Not more than five people can get inside to order at one time. Luckily, they have six picnic tables on an asphalt lot adjacent to the bakery.

Today's haiku:
Ants on the sidewalk.
Just how many have I squished?
A jury awaits.

I also drew a cardboard sign: "DO NOT FEED THE POET."
That one was used only twice today. For brief intervals. Both times, it got a gaping, startled facial response. Nothing verbal. I'll play with it some more tomorrow.

My first donation of $2.00 came at 7:09 a.m.

At 7:26 a.m., a woman gives me a sausage & gravy kolache.

At 7:330 a.m., another lady gives me a twenty dollar bill, first asking anxiously: "Are you taking money?" To which I reply vigorously: "I sure am!"

It's interesting to see what people do with their brown paper bags after they've extracted their kolache. Some fold it up and keep it. Some crumple it into a ball to toss in the trash can. Nobody ever inflates it to pop. That's what I did with every single paper bag I ever got my hands on as a kid. From personal research, I'm happy to report that the Kolache place uses a good quality paper bag made by Duro Bags that can be inflated, shut, and smashed together for an altogether satisfying loud report.

The city is tearing up the street and sidewalks by the kolache place to make way for more parking space. It's a hellacious amount of noise on occasion. Construction lasts for two more weeks. After five hours or so of such din, I get the megrims. But all artists must suffer . . .


At 8:29 a.m., a man in a dark business suit puts a dollar in the can.

A young man, grinning like a gecko, comes up to ask: "How many have you squished?"
I tell him: "Over a lifetime, maybe a million."
He offers to fist-bump me. I oblige.

At 7:42 a.m., I take my first bathroom break. I'm on diuretic medication, so I need to pee a lot. It's a two-block walk over to Fresh Market. I barely made it without having an accident. Their men's room is ill, and the toilet stall is filled with monotonous graffiti of the '***k Biden' variety. And their toilet paper is thinner than graphene membrane.
                                                                                                                                           
I take another bathroom break at 9:01 a.m.
I'll try the Provo City Hall men's room in the lobby tomorrow. It's about a half block less of a walk.

At 9:30 a.m., a young girl gives me $5.00.

At 10:16 a.m., a young woman puts a dollar in my can and says, "Have a nice day." I don't think she bothered to read my haiku.

A man named Jacob stops by to share with me a poem he has written, entitled 'Yourself more than grasses and wood."  It's something about crickets and asphalt streets. I pretend to listen with great interest, hoping he'll feed the kitty—no such luck. I wish him good luck with his poetry, and he mercifully leaves without wanting to discuss the craft of poetry with me.

At 11:47 a.m., I'm ready to call it a day. But there are six white-shirted guys with neckties at one of the picnic tables – are they any good for a donation, I ask myself. They have all read my haiku and smiled at it. So, I gave them ten more minutes before taking off. They leave at 11:54 a.m.  No donations. The momsers.