Three

I had recalled some lines

 

I write poetry

because I breathe

 

three,

to be exact

 

and do not know why –

 

a number that

had waved at me

from the ribs of a passing truck

earlier that day

 

lime green –

 

“three

three

three”

 

it sang,

loping by the café –

 

but why,

I asked, had these

three lines staggered home

ahead of their platoon,

 

does memory

differentiate

beginnings and endings,

prioritising the start

of a poem

like the inverted pyramid

of news tapering

towards an

apex?

 

perhaps it was the bee that flew into the cafe

or the cornflower blue sticker on the window pane

that pin boned from memory

just these lines.

 

Dionne Lew