Scraping up what defines an actual artist
The dried paint on the corner of the table 
The stories that grew up like tall weeds from old men on the porch
The music
The spoons
The sounds that drew the neighbors in
The agriculture that planted the notion
The beauty of a farmhand
The beauty of the field
These old men that told stories
That got passed down to other old men’s stories
That got passed down to the children 
The folklore of creatures that prowled our backyards
And poked at our curiosities with sticks
A century of books, little simple enrichments that
Came from the land 
The time
The sky
It’s buried under the rocks of our youth 
Our pain
We are all artists, planted by hands
On the side of the hill
Where puppets dance on our heads and laugher
Ferments in the trees and seeps out 
In the hands
of a switch-carrier
That falls to their knees in blood
And begs for a full restart of events
In the eyes of all who saw
What it could have been
And what it has created