THERE ARE SOME

who you will never see
in a crowd;
they do not belong
to a gang,
to a movement,
or to a discipline.
They have their own bones
and gnaw on them
alone. They prefer
to just get their work done.
They adhere
to no philosophy
and make things up
as they go--
sometimes
day to day,
minute to minute.

But we
count on them
to distract us
by turning out
a book, a painting,
a symphony
that defies our
somnambulant expectations
and lasts longer
than a typical meal
of Chinese food.
Some of those odd folk
produce nothing
at all,
yet still make art:
you can spot them,
if you look
closely
as they negotiate
the steps
on or off a bus;
or sweeping the dirt
from street corners,
or shaking down shelves
in supermarkets
turning each can's label
facing front.

How it happens
or why it happens
I don't know.
Like the time
I saw a 21 year old,
a babyman,
grinning from ear
to ear strung-out
in a mirror's shards
cut from the knife
of a Coney Island dealer,
but came at him anyway,
blood flying into his face
and eyes.
I wonder where
I went?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013