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There’s a poem in this place, if only I could find it
I wrote it once and put it aside, in doubt.
I hope it wasn’t thrown away by accident
Or if on purpose– I’d give him such a clout

I mean, it was my one and only effort, right?
And for that selective output I demand respect
I can’t blame myself, I’d never be so careless
As to place the poem where it’d be undetect’d

I’ll have to write another poem, I fear.
What could inspire me so again, I wonder
Not love, not loss, not super highs nor lows
Just ordinary woes and usual blunders

Alas, dear reader, you might be as bereft
As I, one poem gone by, another inchoate still
We’ll have to dawdle time away with novels–
Prose!—awaiting the return of my poetic will.