Today I lost a poem –
it might have gone down the drain in the shower
or alongside the dirty washing up water
Come to think of it, maybe it got thrown out
of my pocket along with old receipts…
There were some lines about longing
and England and the trees
and wondering where life is going
and whether calling myself a writer is suitable
or simply untrue
Because I don’t do it as often as I used to,
because the things I think about nowadays are hidden,
Because writing happened the most when I was unwell
and now that I’m better, is there anything left to say?
The poem might have escaped when I was busy at work
or maybe it just got tired of waiting.