Flush


Late last night I wrote a poem,
on a postage stamp by the light of my phone.
In a few short lines
I’d discovered it.
The meaning of it all that is.
The secret.
I tucked it under the pillow, confident
and content.
In the morning there it was,
what I’d been looking for all this time.
Forgetting what I’d written I thought I’d wait, enjoy
it over a brew, teaspoon of sugar –
to celebrate.
Holding it between thumb and finger –
fragile it was –
I walked into the bathroom with it –
to open a window – it had been hot that night.
When I pushed the glass
a trapped pocket of air blew forth in such a way
that it picked up my poem
and dropped it in my loo.
It was the sort of ink that dissolved when wet
so by the time I stared down at it
it had gone.
Two atoms held me in the space:
Perplexed.
And when I moved it was just to flush the loo,
there was nothing else for it.
The energy chuckled
‘You fool’, it whispered.

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