Where’d I leave
That damn poem?
I looked under the bed
And behind the couch,
I searched my office,
Even checked the fridge.
I saw it this morning
Just after I woke,
But I got distracted
Responding to emails,
Reading other poems,
Eating breakfast.
When I got back,
It was gone.
Poems aren’t like car keys:
They do walk off
By themselves.
Poems know no bounds.
Mine could be surfing
In Hawaii by now,
Or lost in a childhood memory.
It could have been sucked
Into a Black Hole
Or caught
A case of the sillies
And be prancing down
Times Square
In its underpants.
I may as well stop looking.
If it wants to be found
It’ll come back
Wearing a funny nose
And mustache
Daring me to recognize it.
Wayne Scheer has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. He’s published stories, poems and essays in print and online, including Revealing Moments, a collection of flash stories, published by Thumbscrews Press (http://issuu.com/pearnoir/docs/revealing_moments). Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.
Eunoia Review 