You were the poem that got lost.
Lines crossed and meter not quite right.
You were a bright and bouncy piece
scribbled frantically, imperfectly,
Some lines were more memorable than others.
The opening verse rolled pleasingly
round the mouth.
Tentative dabbling with words formed
the ambling core. The closing
stanza was somehow sketchy.
Still, you never left me.
I couldn’t image trying to
re-write you. You didn’t need to be
finished or perfect, but you spilled
onto the paper,
begging to be read.