She asks him what he’s doing, running
his hand over a poster on a blackened city wall,
leaning in – closer – trying to feel the words
that cover bare brick and she wonders aloud
if he wrote it.
But it doesn’t matter who wrote it, or why;
what matters is that you feel, for a moment,
how extraordinary ordinary is,
forgetting in your temple of fragmentation
about all the things you gave up
in this concrete jungle where he’s come to play
guerilla, leaving scraps of paper here and there
that talk about the tender gravity of kindness
and how he still kneels and praises all
the small, discarded miracles
that make up city streets, broken though they be.