wrote a poem while driving to look at a piano yesterday
finished it driving home
sharp notes lingering round my ears and eyes and fingers
didn't write it down
cleaned, fretted, chopped an onion and lost it in the tangled
million eternal moments of an evening with friends
this morning a small fire burned in my chest
a glass of wine too many
perhaps
or is it that small poem, whose name I still can't remember?
the title lead in to the rest of the piece
I don't usually do them that way.
But this one was special.
If I sit quietly and wait long enough,
will you please visit me again?
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