Well, in one of the various underground labyrinths before you get on the L train back uptown.
A man, young man, sitting at a harshly assembled desk
behind an old typewriter
behind a sign: (F-R-E-E Poetry)

feverishly typing
stopping to pause every few seconds
behind a line of six people
Including me
Waiting for our
Free poems, please.

wore a scarf and hat
because it is cold
In Brooklyn in January

Six clicks, space, pause, eleven clicks
Enter,

Behind furrowed features
Something metaphysical
A ghost.  

Everyone in line leaning forward—
Make something
Holy for us
Angel.

(didn't look up once.)