A poem is like a pebble.
Lying, not waiting.
An important distinction.

You choose one,
for no obvious reason;
it possesses you, then you it.

You brush off the sand,
twirl it between your fingers,
then pop it in a pocket.

Years later, clearing out,
you chance on it again—
this small, dull thing.

You go to throw it away,
then look again, demur,
and lay it on a shelf, 

where it
continues
lying, not waiting.