Poets in the Park

Started out as a sweltering night
Sitting on a bench near a small garden
Inside the park, all alone
With more on my mind than a president
Too much on the line for this resident
Sitting in the park with a FUBU jacket
A pair of new K-Swiss and an iPod.

Then came a female stranger, not too rare,
Not even a stunning woman, only fair.
Wearing short-shorts and an old grey shirt,
Carrying a ratty notebook like a CNA.
She passed by my bench without a smile,
Only discern and distress on her brow.
She caught my eye for that very moment,
As she took her seat in the garden.

She sparked my curiosity,
Her book opening like a flint,
She seemed to be a local writer,
Which always seemed to make a glint.

After a while I sat down beside her,
And asked her if she was a writer.
She responded, "Oh, I ain't no writer,
I ain't a good artist either."
I asked then if she was a poet,
And it was positive thereafter.

She asked me to spit something,
Looking at my clothes as I did her.
She thought I was a small-time rapper,
A kid who just raped the air,
With sick rhymes and proclamations
Of my life and my possessions.

Instead I told her, "no, but behold,
I don't freestyle at all and I believe in balance,
Like you I spill my ink on paper with grace,
I move words around so they sound better
Than what their syllables and context make."
I rolled up my sleeves, showing off my shirt,
Also dull and somewhat ratted
And my pants were patched with green.
I hunched myself over and introduced myself,
Without my paper or my notes,
And said, "don't mind me,
I'm from where you're from."