i bow
grateful
for each
road paved and traveled on
by the bohemians
before me.
i thank them
everywhere
for drawing
dusty chalkboard
sidewalk patterns
inserting lively stick figures of speech
that marked an impressive way

with dirty-fingernailed hands
they cut each line
outlined in black crayon
or coal
they delivered
for our promise and wonder
tossed it against concrete walls
where it oozed downward
onto hot pavement
age-less, timeless

with rusty, dull scissors
we amateurs try our hand
at unleashing what eats us alive
in our moment to moment

clumsily slicing on this fabric
we try repeatedly
to pin their sturdy
tailored paper
on our own thin, tattered
makeshift word-cloth
uneven hems
ragged edges
shredded seams are all we have
to show in comparison

we are simply
scavengers
thieves in the night
our thoughts vanished
in comparison
each time they lay
splattered on paper’s
edge
our heroes
were word tyrants
‘liars’
often
buffoons
caught in the act
still, we stand on tiptoe
reaching to climb over
these walls

like children at ocean’s edge,
our small, insignificant
feet make
repeated feeble attempts
at stepping into massive
footprints
left by the masters
theirs, imprinted deep
in time’s sands
ours, shallow
faint

we sink
falling to our knees
we crawl
often trying
way too hard
to keep up
when instead
we should just
put down the pen,
brush the grains from
our knees, and
keep
bowing
and
bowing
and
bowing