Friends, do not call me a poet, and I do not mislead you with false modesty. That label has the feel of sharp nails on my skin. I do not have the words, the rhythm, or the inspiration. It’s a heavy stone in my mouth. I do know what I am. I’m a reporter, a tinker, an artisan, working from the limited milieu of painful memories. But the truly creative? The world is their palette and beauty sings her name in everything.