My next door neighbor is a man named Brown.
He’ll blow his horn until the walls fall down.
Hey Jericho, let’s knock these walls right down.
A poem’s a home of imagery and sound.
A poet’s at home in images and sounds.
A poem’s a car that speeds around the town.
A poem can roam through cities, suburbs, towns.
A form’s a path through woods that someone found
Or else a form is something someone made—
someone undaunted, someone unafraid.
Someone undaunted, someone who just prayed,
wrote down his words to God, and what God said.
And what God said to poets all around:
Your neighbors rhyme with you: white, black, or brown.