**Poetry: The Poem Gets Lost

The poem got lost this week, 
I overheard it saying. 

There was just too much to do. 

The poem had a mammogram

and papers to sign

teenagers to drive

and cats to feed. 

This poem is middle-aged- 

which is a solid, practical

age to be-

even if lately it has felt 19. 

This poem dreams of wandering

the rocks and, it admits,

has spent a few mornings

at the playground on swings, 

filled up

with the most delicious imaginings.

But there are still bills to pay

and reports to write

and the ongoing drudge

of domestic negotiation

So the poem continues

its business

jotting words on index cards- 

Butter. Cereal. Petrified River-

while baking a batch of truffle brownies. 

It will linger for now-

the sweet taste of chocolate

on the lips of lines-

licking its fingers clean.