Ever wonder when the endless poem
had found it’s way to fallen Rome
to slip the satin of the sheet
and leave us here half incomplete?

Ever wonder when a poem’s a poem
and not a note from a garden gnome
covered half in grass and rose
unaware how the mad verse goes?

Ever wonder when a poem’s asleep
in pajamas dreaming deep
the dreams of men in banana hose
panicking for a stolen nose?

Ever wonder when a poem’s a friend
unrhymed and simple honest to the end
holding on for all his life
through peaceful peace and angry strife?

Ever wonder how many poems, eating cheese,
disguised – some as mice and some as trees –
crawled under our diligent eyes
because none of us were so wise

Ever wonder if every life might be a poem
sketched quickly on some Goddish tome
then left to read with an open heart
– perhaps that is how each story starts?