Easy

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This poem already exists these are not my words

I find them on my doorstep every morning

I am copying them down now because it makes it all

feel less chaotic I am copying down this line

and this one

this poem exists already this is not my work

what you're witnessing the lines unraveling

in front of you I wish these were my words

I wish they were my words because I’ve lost

my own words over the creaking years but it’s okay

because these words arrive every morning

some part of me imagines that you are the writer

you are the way to my voice a key that unlocks

that door in the attic

remember that door? we put our ears to it

and heard the ocean we never bothered to get

a locksmith we liked the idea of a room in our house

we would never enter everything we couldn't sort

ended up in there

did you ever call the locksmith?