while listening to a poet

I thought I lost this one,
somewhere between 120 degrees and its cooling . . .
rising from the bath it slipped on the white tile
and
lost itself during the thunderstorm
drifting suddenly back
to sit in the palm of my hand
quivering
trembling with
the question:
is the poem made better by tucking it alongside a life
to wait
to whiskey age
simmering
tempering
is this how real poetry is made?
honed
crafted
over time 

taken out--tinkered with
gnawed
and
mulled over
or
is it drop cut word-precise onto a folded napkin
found in your pocket
while sitting in a lime & stone time-traveled church
listening to Ted Kooser speak
hours before the thunder comes