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All the Words That I Gather

She writes poetry
on cocktail napkins,
and the backs of bills
This morning she left a sonnet
on the microwave
written with an eye pencil
on two Post-It notes,
one green, one orange.
Yesterday I almost
threw away a sestina
she had scribbled in pencil
on an old lunch sack,
writing around the jam stains.
She refuses to publish
or even edit them,
leaving her works scattered
like winter leaves
on the door frames and lamp shades
of our apartment.
She says that like a good parent
she has set them free
to live their own lives.
I follow behind as best I can
collecting the scraps,
straightening the edges,
taping them in a notebook
that I keep on the top shelf of my closet
-- just in case --
while in the living room,
she works couplets
around the margins of a newspaper.


(C) Copyright 2000, S. Camille Broadway. All rights reserved.
Questions? Comments? Contact me at scbroadway@mindspring. com