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
Posted in: NaPoWriMo