The Poem Next Time
You taste it on the tip
Of soul—
Brief pictures captured
From car windows
As you race by.
You hear it in your head—
Silently mime words
On chapped lips.
You know you could have
Said it so much better—
Letting words be your emotion
As you sit silently
And do nothing.
You take up pen—
And it’s not there.
Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2006
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