The Writer

From his blunt 2B pencil,
Words spill forth once again,
Capturing movement
In all its grace.

Which is hardly imaginable,
Considering that
They are represented
On a creased receipt
Pulled out in grubby frenzy
From a pocket filled with compressed
Bits of ancient machine-washed Kleenex
And dirty coins.

He remembers,
The only time he dared,
He took four hours to rewrite
His biggest pride of all
Hoping that they would
Like the costly
Dew-scented writing paper
And the mousy calligraphy
Which was, indeed, a work of art
In itself, when compared
To how the ink usually shaped itself
As it left the nib of his instruments.

But they glanced at him
As though he were an awful
Museum exhibit.
And showed him the way out.

And had they only bothered to listen,
The song of his language would have
Opened the eyes of those
Who said a picture
Paints a thousand words.

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