I wish for a poem like a misplaced object –
Say, a toilet brush on a step-stool on a city sidewalk.
No personality, no politics – but JARRING.
No ambition. No means. Towards no end.
That way, people could look at it and shrug:
“That doesn’t belong here”;
“Where did it come from?”
Never do they suspect
That someone had made it
And put it there.
Something common, something out of place,
A piece of ignorance, an obstacle created
A suspension, insoluble, sticky –
A blue-ink drawing of a crowd executed
Without dropping eyes from faces,
Without lifting pen from paper.