Driving through the streets and finding one cache after another of decaying posters. It's like stumbling on a thick seam of diamonds. Over and over again.
Then small snapshots of the same poster. I'm hooked! Small records of the street. Moments in time. Reminds me of a little fragment of a larger poem. Here. This one..
This is what stenographers do in courtrooms, too,
alert at their miniature machines taking down every word.
Where there is a silence they sit still as I do, waiting
and listening, fingers resting lightly on the keys.
Under the music I can hear the rush of cars and trucks
on the highway and every so often the new kitten, Felix,
hops into my lap and watches my fingers drumming out
a running record of this particular June Tuesday
So convinced am I that I have found my vocation,
tomorrow I will begin my chronicling earlier, at dawn,