Is a poem not just a song
with rhyming verse
that’s not yet sung?

With repeated chorus
not yet stuck
inside one’s head,
amongst the muck?

Is a poem not just a song?
A daisy chain of verse
not yet strum

around a fire
among some friends
deep in the woods
on away weekends.

Is a poem not just a song
not yet proclaimed
by a choir’s tongue?

But uttered silently
in a bed-lamp’s light
at early hours
of the night.

Is a poem not just a song
that peacefully rests
in black ink upon

a white page
inside a book,
upon a library shelf
until it’s took?

Is a poem not just a song
quietly set to lips
that read along

on a train,
on the way back home
from visiting gran
for tea and a scone?

Is a poem not just a song
unset to keys
and not yet begun?

Not yet major,
and not yet minor.
Just metered in beats
and little other.

Is a poem not just a song?
I suppose it could be
but not this one.