Pedestrian Poet

Nursing a dream he holds inside
He softly assays the now,
Toiling pedestrian in stride
As circumstances allow.

He peddles wares in middling ways,
Patrons served largely by rote,
Cogitating,"One of these days,
My name will be one of note."

Hopeful, but resigned to the now
He smiles, observant and sure,
Chipmunking the details of "how,"
Preserving the moments pure.

Mechanically moving through days,
Observing subtle detail,
He sees things in radiant ways:
Lives that succeed and fail.

Not once does the poet conceive
He's not fated for success,
Yet until that fateful reprieve,
He toils under such duress.

Anonymous soul, simply "him,"
The genius we've not yet met,
Often composing on a whim,
A talent we'd not forget

And when night falls he sleeps so sound,
Wrapped in this dream held so tight;
He knows one day he'll be unbound:
One day he will get to write.

For all of you aspiring poets out there. :)