I’ve started looking at conversations as poem starters. The first line is from a movie and the rest is what it brought out of me:

mayb

I miss the days that never came
summertime wet and sweet melon
rinds fly nibbled and misty wide

the days made of waiting, hungry
for tomorrow,         lush with hope
when each moment could be anything

had yet to define itself by name
was aching with              opportunity
filling itself up with           honesty

and slowly, as not to alert my sense
of           self, I became the average
of           each noon passing, together

infinite, suddenly—done.  Quietly
completed, without stout, full victories
one does miss the maybe-days.

—ECW