The Blue Book

Fox Street

She asks him what he’s doing,
running his hand over a poster
on a blackened city wall,
leaning in - closer -
as if trying to feel the words
that now cover bare brick
would give her a better sense
of where they were born
and what will become of them.

But it doesn’t matter who wrote it,
or why;
what matters is that you feel,
for a moment,
how extraordinary ordinary is,
forgetting your fragmentation,
all the things you gave up
in this concrete jungle
where he’s come to play guerilla,
leaving scraps of paper here and there
that talk about the tender gravity of kindness
and how he still kneels
and praises all the small,
discarded miracles
that make up city streets,
broken though they seem.



Open Sesame