Real theater does not happen
on the Great White Way,
nor does good poetry appear
in the pages of the New Yorker.
The Arts continue on their way
in the backwoods of wherever
like weeds in the rolling woods
of memory, desire, and even love,
anywhere where failure is an option
that fuels the fire of imagination.
Arts present the marriage of fortune
to the neglected lot, the abandoned house
waiting to be renovated, flipped
over to the ordinary schedule.
The artist moves on like a vagabond,
not knowing where it will all end.