Dig in your backpack they said
In the back of the drawer
In the box you’ve hid under your bed.
Look on that old envelope
Screwed up bank note
That ancient deposit slip.
Back of the hand?
Maybe you wrote something there once
But it’s long washed away.
All those places we poets are meant to leave words
Like seeds in the hope they’ll grow further
If we let them wait.
My words are buried and singing
In the back of my mind.
Kind of hard to dig there.
But I’m growing fine cobwebs
And musical spiders to spare
Written for ReadWritePoem #26 get scrappy