A poem found written in my own hand
from one of my forgotten lives- 
I've had a few-
drives a coach and horses through my hovel.
It appears I should have given more-
look at me with nothing! How could I
disagree? In this life 
the poems keep coming, who knows from where? 
Losing them would be a swim out to drown, 
accepting them with an even hand
burns the nerves but must 
provide a way ahead.