I Was Just Thinking
A poem lives under my bed…
a ribbulous ribbon of rhythm and rhyme;
a scurrilous scatter of tempo and time;
a whispering weaver of words left unsaid.
I cover my ears and hide under the sheets,
still it beats itself into my brain:
the rhythm of rhyming, the tempo of time,
the relentless repeating refrain.
That pestulous poem under my bed!
It bores its way into my bone.
Perhaps on paper I’ll pen it tonight–
maybe then it will leave me alone!
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