A poet at the supermarket

At the supermarket, yes, we have one near Faro. I met a poet.

The mall is nicely built and has two bell towers.

From time to time, they chime to remind us why we are

Here, not sit on a bench in its courtyard looking up to

The sky is seeing mind-blowing cumulus configurations.

The poet I met had a white beard, wore an old black suit,

a tie with red wine spots on, a black beret that whiffed

Of garlic, I think. You could see that it wasn’t really there.

His eyes scanning the ground, he bent down, picking up.

Half-smoked butts of cigarettes. Ok, not so rich

So what? Haven’t you heard of a poor poet before?

They are not all idle sons of the rich, and with a university.

Degrees in literature. A notebook in the side pocket and

Two pencils in his breast pocket; so he was a poet, ok.