The Scribbler

.

No one erased or doubted the outpouring,

the overtures that resulted mightily

in the works scribbled on concrete

beneath the overpass. Artwork

as unremarkable, but the words.

The words.


A street writer puts spray pen as paint 
can to work and orders up another offering
to make the onlookers pause and nod
agreement to a one group opinion. Not
or ever the medium, the words.
.
Aspire, a piece of mind says so well.
Here, companion to homeless pigeons
and rusting drain pipes, hidden
from the omnipresent others, a gray
crumbling surface graced in oratory
so pure, so clear. The words.

.

Rain streaked, only a bit weather worn,
words not chipped but oiled on stone.
Only the off-beat wanderer stumbles
onto the gigantic mausoleum of ideas
as ovation happily scrawled with makeshift
tools protected, almost indelible, against a
streaked and reeking underpass.

The words.

.

Not the penmanship. Not the work etched 
quickly upon a gray-blue aging cracked canvas.

Here is the essence of an homage.

The words.

 

allets

05-24-17

832p

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