The Unwritten Poem

the words are mingling somewhere, a
drink in hand, some hot hors d'oeurves on
a napkin, they wander from one corner
of the room to the diagonal as if on a
shuffleboard looking for the perfect mate,
maybe a king will capture his queen.
these words may be drifting out the window
on a dream, in someone's stomach with
a morsel of leg of lamb and a sip of wine,
or flipping pages in a dictionary looking
for the home from which they came.
they did not arrive here yesterday,
assembled into a readable package, but
surely they will find their way again
into the perfect poem.