Lost Poem

Iint

photo by William J Spirdione

I hear my wife’s voice call from the laundry
“A lost poem, A lost poem.”
Then,
For the far too many time,
“Check your pockets before you put your clothes in the washer.”
I love my wife.
She puts up with too much.
I never learn my lesson.
As I emptied the lint basket,
A haiku floated to the floor.

Words in brain scrambled Lint and debris of living
Motionless meaning