I lost a poem.
Ever had the feeling?
“Maybe under the bed.” I say aloud.
Perhaps tucked into a unnamed file
or in the car. Could it be in the driveway or
by the landing to the porch?
The coffee shop!
Racing up stone steps past professors
sipping on herbal teas. A quick look around,
an admittedly too loud, breathy conversation
with the barista and I’m back at the door with
my head hung low.
What if it was the greatest poem I’ll ever write?
It certainly had that feeling of grandeur.
Those lines came out of me like water in a broken
basin. The lost poem had better metaphors than that.
“The Lost Poem” it already has an epic name that will
haunt my mind for decades to come. Some nobody will
stumble upon it years from now. It will blow in from the
east and crinkle against his heel. He will snatch it from
the ground and his eyes will light up and he will know
what to do with a poem such as this! Claim it for himself.
His popularity will rise and I’ll be the guy penning greeting
cards for the company that swallows up hallmark. Face
cards, a Facebook company using Google imaging
software. I will be at my lowest point when I find my poem
posted on newsfeeds by hip twenty somethings that have
a catchy name we haven’t even come up with yet.
At first, I’ll want to reclaim the glory that is rightfully mine,
but that will fade. And I’ll shrink back into the hole I call
a home, never to be heard from again.
Many years ago I lost a poem.
But you already know what it says.
I lost a poem.