It

Poetry comes now.

From the wooden spoon

My Mother never hit me with,

From the childhood friend

I met with tonight,

From the fingers that

Are off-placed on the keyboard.

Poetry comes from the sky

Filled with stars-a-hiding

From nights past.

It comes from the notion

That I talked and remembered

All the days of the 'hood'

And came home smiling for you.

Comes and goes, as it would

Any other artistic endeavor.

In the spirit or of it...