Strolling, sweat rolling down South Congress in Austin, I passed a young lady with an old typewriter. Pause, check it out. “Do you need a poem, Sir”. I love the Sir and Maaaam in Texas. Yes indeedy, go right ahead young lady. She asked three pointed questions, to which I gave three suffering artist answers, and told me to check back in ten minutes. Went off looking for a cowboy hat I had no intention of buying, and returned to her little table with Smith Corona and tin can stuffed with dollar bills. She extracted a small sheet from the machine, swiveled towards me, cleared her throat and read me her finely sharpened poem.