I write for the bum on a bike with its missing spokes and the saddle of leather half eaten by rats.

I write for the woman, who bends the sun to her will behind her glasses.

I write for the people in power, who don’t know half of the words for poverty.

I write for the children, who don’t dare come home with reports red from their teacher’s nib.

I write for the humble bumble bee flying clumsily from flower to flower.

I write for the truck drivers taking their love for the road to the streets.

I write for the barefoot men fixing things up for a woman’s smile.

I write for the musician shaking and baking scores till golden.

I write for the gurus when they tumble down from their lofty location.

I write for the bricks bellowing verses at the heart of a house.

I write for the deaf, who hear from the mute, who speak to the blind, who see for the lame, who run at the flicker of a moth.

I write for the soldiers in battle drawn by adventure, the go-getter and the meek, the lion and the lamb, all in drag and ready to die.

I write for all of them before sunrise with a quill made of dandelions, and during the day wearing glittering gloves, and at sundown dancing like a dirty dog around a phrase-filled bucket.

I write when I don’t write and I don’t write when I write.

I’m a tunnel through gridlock and a bridge under water.

I sprawl, I spill and I splutter and when I stop writing the giant wheel comes to a halt for the tiniest time.

Then I throw my summersault pen at you and you must continue my story before the bell chimes, before the chalice of God hits the cobble stone floor of my marigold mansion.

published in fourpaperletters jan 2010