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Two Poems by daniel mcginn:
the poem that got away
This poem was written on a crumpled cocktail napkin &
it fell out of my shirt pocket. I have no way of knowing how
many times this poem was stepped on before you picked it
up & pushed it into your back pocket.
This poem was litter until you found it on the street in front of
your place. My flattened napkin flexed & rode on your ass until
you slipped off your jeans & tossed them in a laundry basket.
This poem was never very good. It sacrificed meaning
to achieve intimacy. It sat like a Buddha, silent for 8 dark days
meditating on your footsteps, memorizing the cadence of
your breath, eavesdropping on phone calls & becoming
familiar with your voice.
This poem took a ride in your washing machine where it evolved
into an unreadable worry stone—a hard white lump
with blue streaks.
This poem was torn to pieces in your dryer & it left flecks on your clothing.
When you buried your face in your favorite towel, bits of poetry
were waiting for you. Tiny remnants clung to your wet skin
& hid themselves in your magnificent hair.