Pen, pencil, chalk, knife
It doesn't matter to the poet.
Anything to wrap his fingers around
It doesn't matter to the poet.
Something worn, something used,
Some old song, somewhat abused,
It doesn't matter to the poet
He'll use it.
Wandering in the day, as he does everyday
No work, no money, no honey
Appreciating trees and fleas
And a cold winter's breeze -
That's what his poems are made of.
But it doesn't matter to… Continue