How Many Roark's? Poem by James Edwards

I was dreaming about Fountainhead the other day,
No reason really, just kind of popped up, an old memory
lost-
Taking a wrong turn to my frontal cortex.
And I wondered what would have happened if Roark
Never knew how to build?
What if his self, his ideas, his remarkable creativity
Was only hindered by his inability to work a hammer?
No Slotnik, No Skyscraper, No Stoddard Temple.

This thought twisted my mind.
How many Great songs, portraits, cars, coffee makers,
Have never been?
How many Mozart's, Jordan's, Einstein's,
Are born in black holes?
How many Wakons, Loodones, and Bobblotyemetiers
Are kept in the vault?

What if Columbus suffered sea-sickness,
And MLK never dreamed?
What if Hawkin’s could use his hands-
Tearing every theory of time and space?

I then imagined a child sitting in class
Looking out the window,
Counting the leaves that fall
when a robin flies away.
Within each moment, the child
Breathes hope-
Of one day becoming the first.
The best.
The future brightened by the sun outside
And the pleasant white noise of the teacher.

But what if that child was Ayn Rand?
And on that particular day,
The lessoned being taught was
How to efficiently,
And effectively
hold a pen.

Then, perhaps, there would be no Roark to get lost-
And I would be sound asleep.