Each time I sense the wonder of this world

I stop to see, take notes, believe.  I might 

be clinging to a mountainside or curled

upon a rock in forest streaked with light.

Although, I must confess, I can get bored 

with trees.  My muse lives in a city square,

mostly, splashing in the fountain, moored

upon a bench, or hogging trash can fare.

Often, I regard myself as poor,

a panhandler who begs of beauty small change.

Let me have cement, I say, that door

into the tenement, this used syringe

dropped at the curb.  The urban landscape cries

and I perceive with pencil, heart, eyes.