I wrote poetry

I found a small mole
In the palm of my right hand
Near the center
Slightly at the lower left

I thought it was dirt
Or mud or something like that

I had to climb out the bathroom through the narrow window
Because the lock broke
And the passageway was thick with fine dust

My hands were filled with dirt
Or mud or something like that

The dirt was the mole
I thought It was real
I scratched
And licked
Boy was it real

It was not dirt
Or mud or something like that

It was a profound experience
Like looking at a star filled sky
All alone in a green field with your feet immersed in water
And to make it truly profound
I wrote poetry

Not about dirt
Or mud or something like that