Inspired by what a friend said. Although I cannot rhyme to save my life, inexplicably, I still try.

I bumped into a poem today

His hair was askew and his beard was grey,

And when I asked him if he’d stay

He politely refused.

But I pursued him down the street

To the place where muses go

The place where metres always meet

And rhythms freely flow.

And as he turned I saw his face

With lines that ran a thousand miles

And eyes that were full of song

And fire in his smile.

And as I walked I heard him speak

In a voice that tripped with rhyme

But his feet were sore and cracked and weak

From always keeping time.

As I watched, he stooped and picked

The dust and grime from garbage heaps

And carved them into perfect words

That lay like diamonds, fast asleep

In his palm, and with his stroke

All at once, they all awoke

And flew like a thousand butterflies

Into the city smoke.