inspiration + perspiration = invention :: T. Edison ::
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A street artist lived
just outside my door
and drew a mural every morn.
If he had a home
I didn't know it,
his clothes were dirty and torn.
Day and night,
it seemed like
he worked for pocket change.
Shoulda been in
museums and things,
but instead on Fifth and Main.
I remember the
colors, so bright,
their sifting swirling arrangement.
They took you to
another world
far beyond the pavement.
Every morning as
I rushed to work,
pounding steps upon the street,
I saw this man
begin his day
with chalk and concrete.
One day as I
gazed at the
colorful display,
I asked him
why he worked
the streets for such little pay.
He cracked a
smile and then,
instead of telling me,
Asked how
I could find life
in constant drudgery.
One morning
the paper said
an unknown artist died.
I ran and found
his usual spot,
tears fighting past my eyes.
His favorite spot
was drawn on,
like he'd worked late into the night,
With deep red,
a sunset bright,
setting on a contented life.