I don’t know where that poem went,
it stopped by late last night.
I swore that I would write it down
then, whoops, turned off the light.
 
I searched the pack of tumbleweed
who giggled down the street,
and checked the broken traffic light,
monotonous winking beet.
 
I thought it might be napping
in my mother’s favorite chair.
Nestled soft in golden fray,
but nope, it wasn’t there.
 
I gut myself up like a fish
and dredged the gooey lot.
I don’t know where that poem is,
but I sure know where it’s not.