What’s Underfoot

I haven’t written
a poem for so long,
that the paper
I ink these thoughts upon,
has rip-curled
to an unusable tube
and it lets each line
of words slip
out the other end.

There they go;
dropped out of view
like flimsy ideas discarded,
being only shavings.

Except now, I notice them,
and all these other little bits,
every word I missed off.
Every life splinter –
each one that I could not wait to lose,
and minor thing
hid under the heel of my shoe.

Every thing I felt
and didn’t acknowledge
its place of value –
all that was
dropped on the floor
and left to walk out the door before.

These odd scraps lie in this poem,
and I’ve come to love them.

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