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Last Minute Poem
I wrote this at the last minute.
You know,
the minute before, I raced out the door.
I scrawled it out until the paper tore.
The thoughts I wanted to convey
about another hurried, scrambled day.
I spilled and splattered it on the page.
I was Jackson Pollock in a frantic rage.
My muddy, muddled words never tired.
My rutty, riddled will never expired.
This scratch was never worth any cash.
This paper crumpled and tossed in the trash.
On second thought, I recovered the script.
The meager text told a tale I never gripped.
I wrote this at the last minute.
You know,
the minute before, I raced out the door.
Copyright ©
Thomas Wells
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