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?
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?