For The Artist

For The Artist

You told me once that a poem was laying under my breast

just waiting there to be lifted up by your hand

and all of he merciless beggars
in the street overheard you

So they took off their jackets and lifted their shirts up in the cold, exposing bare chests

You thought they were jeering but you laughed at the joke
as if it was meant to be funny

I knew there was no jest in their wisdom so I read the poem you’d given me loud enough for the city to hear

One by one the poor and hungry put their shirts down, tucked them in even, put their jackets on and stood taller than before

You looked puzzled when a child removed your hat and began collecting coins from the filled beggars

I knew what they were doing so I added my coin to the hat before handing it back to you

and with all of those small coins that you feel you never earn enough of

you wrote another poem just for yourself and without knowing, tucked it away under my left breast with the blood and sweat and tears of your ink stained hands

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