It must have been something I ate

I do not write poetry. Oh, I dabbled just like every other creative teenager does, but I had no talent and the poetry phase quickly passed. Yes, I've always been known as the family cut-up, the one who composes silly rhymes for birthday cards, but I do not write real poetry.

Honest. Not even in secret.

So it's really strange that I awoke this morning and found myself staring at a faint crack in the bedroom ceiling, writing a poem in my head. I beleive it began as an interrupted dream, and the Creative Person in me never lets a dream go without giving it a good ending.

I'm surprised at how much I like this. Maybe you'll like it, too.

LOST

Did you see how our waiter
looked at me just now?
Is my dismay that obvious?
I want to pat the pockets of my suit,
but I know I won't find what I've lost
in any of them.

My mother warned me
about this kind of theft,
and since reaching manhood
I've always been careful.
But it's late and I'm tired,
and being with you always tempts me
to recklessness.

My breathing has quickened,
but you look pleased,
lowering your coffee cup to its saucer
as my panic spirals toward
our chandelier of stars.
Now your black-cherry mouth widens
and I stare, dumfounded,
at the unrepentant smile
of a pirate.

You must have taken it just now, when
your gray eyes laughed at me,
then sobered suddenly,
and drew me in,
drew me in,
drew
me
in.

That's it, kids. I have no plans to write any more, unless another unfinished dream requires it.

Everyone have a safe and happy weekend.