I guess a poem is supposed to mean something, be true.
You need to put stuff in it, memories or flowers or parents.
It should resonate like a whack to the funny bone.
What happens when the poems won't be written down.
You stare at pictures of your mother, remember the smell
of your Grandfather just in from the barn.
The little arrow blinks at you, like an engine at idle,
the screen blank and white,
and you wonder where your gift left for,
and will it be back,
will it still speak to you.
Sometimes a poem doesn't need
to matter to anyone to mean something.