There’s a poem in my pocket
it’s just waiting there
written on a scrap of paper
a poem still to share

Not very long
and yet the words still speak
sometimes I take it out
just to have a peek

Written and saved
it’s crumpled and worn
but this is how
great poems are often born

In my pocket it waits
until someone comes along
to share it with again and again
in the universe belong

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