The Poet
By Phyllis Beebe
I make my best
poems when
I'm walking through the
night
Without a stub of pencil
Or a scrap
on which to write.
And when the following
evening
That same way I pass
The lovely
words and phrases
I find lying in the
grass
With discarded candy wrappers
And a
broken red balloon.
Lost and useless objects
and
The words of a buffoon.