The Idea is Gone

Of course!

The idea is gone;
slipped from my memory
like a sliver of moonlight
sneaking between the shades
casting an ominous glow
on the bedspread.

If only I had a pen,
pencil, crayon, marker,
stone tools and a rock!
ANYTHING! to capture
a possible poem.

Perhaps it will come back
to visit me
in the night, and
see me sleeping soundly,
deeply
with the yellow sliver
across my face.

He will smile as he stands in the doorway,
then turn from me,
to visit someone
else.