Torn pages of unfinished verse.
No one can know she’s vulnerable.
She rips them from her journal and throws them in the trash with other lost travelers.
Aborted words never reaching their potential. Lost to eaters of paper, termites, censoring her as if she had no rights.
But, perhaps a garbage collector, or sorter of garbage, finds those torn pages. Scraps freed from plastic coffins.
Placed in his wallet with the others. A black Velcro underground railroad.
Gathered together at last and pasted into a leather bound journal. One bought at a yard sale, still usable, only a few pages missing.
When he dies, his grandchildren find the journal and say, “I never knew Grandpa wrote poetry.” , and pass legends of writers down to their own children.
He was so vulnerable.
Poetry
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I really enjoyed reading this! I like how this poem tells a story about poems.
A nice poem depicting the memoir piece of poetry preserved with great dedication and passed on to generation, The details, speak the provise the author has exhibited. I liked it “Bernard 1960” , you wrote it well!