Writing a poem

Writing a poem was rummaging through

Words, looking for them in the discarded thoughts of the

Beggar on the corner of the red light, in the lighting of the

Smoke in an unknown bar at the end of the street, in the

Frowns of a lover with love unfulfilled, in the empty

Meanings of the street sign. Words; look for them in the

Garbage dumps, where people leave them like unsmoked

Tobacco, like an empty bottle after a heavy night of drinks; look

For them like the destitute looks for a home under every ceiling,

Under a deserted shrine; in a forgotten death. Look for them

Like a beggar rummages patience in empty garbage cans

To turn over fruits of leftover hands, yet day in and day out

They keep turning over. Keep looking.