I lost a poem last night.
“Where,” you ask?
“Did you mislay it, or place it
on a shelf, behind some
knickknacks, or under that
pair of old, wooden Foo Dogs?
“And I looked,” so I’d answer,
simply. “I lost a poem.”
“Well which one?” you might reply.
“It was unnamed,” I’d say.
“It came to me while I lay in bed,
awake, though I had tried
counting clumsy sheep.
“It blew in on a cold air,
streaming up from the
open bedroom window.
It settled on me, along
with the cool air, and I
struggled with the thought
of getting up, the first
few lines still fresh in my
mind, or staying warm and
oh so sweetly near the confining embrace of slumber.
“And so you lost the poem?”
“I did,” I say sadly.
“But I found this one while looking.”
