Outsider Art
Ironic because most often
It’s inside
That the art is found
In drawers so full of poems
They have to be yanked open
Or in unlabeled boxes
Of unlabeled tapes
Or rolls and rolls of film
Yet to be developed
Or in sketchbooks
Wavy with watercolor
People who used to see them
In the stairwell
In the street
Tell the documentarian
Yes he was a little strange
I often wondered
What she did with the hours
Or for money
Up there in that apartment
In that room
And to think that all that time
You just never know with people
What all they carry inside them