Ravelled

I think I wrote a poem, but I don’t know where I put it. I wore it to work or concealed it in my pocket. I rode home with it on the bus and buried it in a place I don’t remember. The poem about a poem I couldn’t write. The one that haunts me now, like the imagined place I used to work, I’m sure of it. I don’t know where I was or what I did there; a room with a door and combination code. Maybe I started, and didn’t finish. Maybe it is a part of me I’ve hidden from myself. There is a room I can’t find or enter. There is also the two-way road that I am driven down and back, as each day begins and ends. How many poets are here in the shadows? With their hearts kept in the bottom of a drawer? We move around the same turns, stop at the same shelters – watch the same people come on and off. My child reminds me: the sun has not gone down yet.