I wrote a poem,
I gave it away,
I never got it back,
Now its probably off in the fray.
I miss the poem,
I wish it was still here,
I wish it was in my hands where it belongs,
I could right it again but none of its clear.
It explains a love to an old friend,
Only if I could remember,
Exactly what it said then you could be read that and not this,
Two years ago in the November.
Dedicated to my very first poem (I don’t even remember the name of it)
