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,
now it’s lost to me;
i can’t remember the poem anymore..,
but it must mean something, somehow, to someone, somewhere.