...

Poet of the street
I walk by you each day
over an envious woe beneath my step
shameful nods acknowledge
“I too want to be a poet”
lost within weathered streets of words
my pack stuffed with notebooks and pens
an honest day’s pay emptied
from a tin cup
but all I do is
cast a timid glance
out from the corner of my eye
squint into morning haze
at what lies between our daily routine
One of us sits upon a crate
behind a sign that reads,
“surviving by art”
the other sits on his chair
behind a cluttered desk
surviving by instict
When the day is done
we meet again
little do you know
your words
keep us both
alive.