To the poet by night

You draw bits of words out of your deep pocket of melancholy, and throw them all over as if the night were sightless. 

Little did you know, someone totters through the streets you had been. He would rummage your litter piece by piece, waiting for a great salvage.

 And by the dint of your poem, you’d leave him sleepless, waiting for the next piece that has yet to be written.