You see some smutz
On your shirt or pants
Or on another's cheek
And
Without
Consideration
Brush it away,
As any decent person would.
A poet
Takes the afore mentioned
Smutz
And looks at it...
Rolling it gingerly between his fingers.
He wonders what it is...
How did it get there?
Is anyone else missing this?
As he examines it
He smells it
And, though it might seem foolish and disgusting,
He tastes it.
It smells like an idea
And tastes like a memory.
And so he frowns and smiles
As he holds this formless thing about
His mind
And laughs
And cries
As little pieces of it dry up and fall away
While it subtly picks up oil from his hand,
Dust from the table, and
Other related and tangential
Pieces of smutz.
And when he has toyed with it sufficiently,
He will take a piece of paper
And rub it off his finger
Leaving a smudge
That is generally, but not exactly,
Identical to the thing he enjoyed so much.
And he will take this page and set it,
as though it were something sacred, on a shelf
So that when you should come to call
He will take it down
And show you this beautiful thing
He has found.
