Two poems lie crumpled on the floor,

And sorry I had not the patience to read them both,

I contemplated throwing them away.

But I skimmed through one as best I could

And, it being pehaps the more pleasing at first glance,

I stuffed it into my pocket.

Someday far ahead I'll look back and say,

'That was a nice poem,'

And get on with it.

And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,

I shall walk into rooms full of poems,

Some, I will read, and plenty will be thrown away

Without a second thought.  Why?

Don't ask.

The poem I took that day was just as good as any other.

Two poems lay crumpled on the floor,

And mine was just as good as any other.

So what's the difference?