I’ve seen attacks on concrete walls, with cans
of paint, transformative in hands so fast.
But more impressive is the way the man’s
applying ink to paper makes a cast
of monsters matter, pens a scene or act.
He draws the miracles he bragged about
when he was young obnoxious. Then he lacked
the gratitude now grounded in his shout.

I know, for I’m a page-transformer too.
I put a song or story on the white.
Selecting words is what I daily do,
and practice makes it easy, so I write
without a block but with awed modesty,
each time impressed at where the verse took me.

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