The Best Thing
What if the best thing you ever did
Was a poem that, once finished,
You had to give away
Or was taken
By whomever claimed it?
This isn’t it— don’t get excited.
All these words so far don’t count.
This isn’t the poem I was talking about.
The poem I am talking about
Lives in the recesses of unfinished
Sanctuaries where the hunted
Crouch behind blocks of broken granite.
No one thinks to look for it there
Which is why it feels so safe.
But that’s only a transition stage.
The one who knows it best
Seizes it
And carries it away to her lair
Where she finishes it and signs it
With a mashup of their names.
The AP wire service picks it up
And publishes it online
Under the unverifiable byline
And it quickly goes viral.
It’s fair to say the whole world reads it
Not because they have to or want to
But because if you’ve made it this far
That's what you do.
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