“unrefined”

It’s not in my nature to be inquisitive.
I should have been raised to be a migrant farm worker and gather produce—
            there’s simple beauty in that:
            Kerouac wrote about it poetically.
Those after me will most likely sing and dance to a more refined tune,
             whereas I will simply mumble scales.
I’ve accepted my ignorance long ago, my talents missing.
But I still know beauty.
I see this beauty,
             especially when it belongs to the one holding the broken pen.