poem vii

there’s a pattern in here, somewhere.

i wrote a poem the other day,

but i wrote it in charcoal pencil, on a napkin.

but when i put it in my pocket and

i took it back home with me,

walking back home through the snow

(and this is all true);

the pencil writing smudged; and

i couldn’t read it anymore,

and

now it’s lost to me;

i can’t remember the poem anymore..,

but it must mean something, somehow, to someone, somewhere.