genesis

the janitor of my elementary school
had a secret

constantly lurking in a short, wide hallway
that connected the inside to the outside

his exterior seemed ordinary enough
young face, curly hair, cotton collared shirt

cheerfully sweeping and cleaning
always standing on the margins

but interiorly, he was a powerful person
transformed, mysterious, supernatural

in hushed tones my teachers enthused:
he was a poet

I didn’t know what that meant
exactly what he did with language

but I did sometimes see him
with a journal, a pencil, and a smirk

opening up the universe
on a blank page

I imagined he was magically endowed
had been to boot camp in Middle Earth

secret training by ancient scribes
a third eye with which to view the world

wielding words like a martial artist
bringing things into being with his pen

a poet is a seer, a prophet, a conjurer
seeming so much more than human

but you don’t become one
until someone else declares it