He would hold up a book when people passed. "Would you like to read my book of poems. It's about me and my daughter."
His tone was frail. Hopeful.
People rarely made eye-contact. Sometimes they'd politely nod, smile, say no thank you. Sometimes they'd actually stop, feign interest. But most of the time they walked on by. And the old man would wait patiently at the table filled with his poem books.
I was a few isles over, watching. Each time he held up the book, I was crushed. Won't someone buy his book? But still, I just watched. And when it came time to leave, I took the long way around.
Funny how I would have done the exact same thing. You feel guilty for a moment and then you say if they really were good poems he would have been on T.V. like the harry potter books.
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