You’d think there was a point to all this marauding.
No, there is no point—the words simply come.
What am I? I am a patchwork quilt of various things.
I am the pale yellow fuzz that forms around your mouth at age three.
I am the sleepy, slack-jawed stranger nodding next to you on the bus.
I am found money, twisted and gnarly, meant only for squandering.
I am slick asphalt, hot and tar-black, bubbling under a noonday sun.
I am a pencil stub, worn down by endless repetitive scrawls on lined paper.
I am the fragrant underside of stones, where they sidle secretly against earth.
I am, all these, and yes, sometimes I am other things, I am.