these are your words
not mine

I just borrowed them
for a bit
to write this poem

I wish I had words
of my own
I really do

they would look nice
next to the couch say
or spread out across
the pasture
with all that milkweed
and clover

if I had words of
my own
I think I would never
let them out

instead I would
bury them
somewhere secret

shoved in a rusty old jar
beneath the barn
where
that one fat raccoon
still hides

waiting for nightfall
to steal another egg