My Poem.

I lost my poem,
I had it earlier.
Written out so neatly, on a pad,
With my favourite writing pencil,
The one with the black and grey stripes
And the paint missing near the letters HB.
Where my teeth had chewed in frustration,
At the lack of words, that
I could find,
To replace my grandma's voice
In my head,
Tutting about lead and poison,
And bad habits,
Such as nail-biting, nose-picking
And untidiness.
None of which I have, of course.
You see,
My poem is not lost forever
Under a pile of discarded body parts,
It's just ever so slightly mislaid, somewhere.