A Poem Goes Out Without Me

A poem needs no driving licence, no good knee, no explanation at the gate. I give it a title, check its pockets for a word I might regret, and send it out. It may spend a week unopened. It may disappear beneath a photograph of lunch. I cannot accompany it into every room. Somewhere, perhaps, a person reading on a train will pause above a line I nearly crossed out. They will miss their stop. No— that is too much to ask of twelve small lines. Let them reach their station, put the phone away, and carry something up the stairs: a question, a remembered face, the wish to find a pencil. I will be here, making tea, wondering whether I should have used a different word.