where do unwritten poems go?

I had a poem chomping at the inside my head as I sat here at my desk at work, but then a million interruptions, a couple of squawking service reps--I love them but they are like a flock of flustered hens when there are problems--who need my help right this instant, and the damn printer near my desk is printing grade rosters or some big job like that that is several old-growth-trees long. rwwwwwwwanh rwwwwwwwwanh rwwwwwwanh, page after endless page.

I was trying to scribble a couple of lines down while the gist of it was in my head, when a coworker walks up to the desk behind me and unloads her whole sad life story (at top volume) into the lap of the coworker who sits near me. He didn't ask for it, but he's getting it. The whole story. A story I've heard before and while I can empathize up to a certain point, the protagonist of this story (coworker's grown son) is in the major pickle he's in because he's been arrested for theft (multiple times), drug abuse and trafficking, domestic violence, etc. etc. A list as long as your arm.  And he just suffered chicken pox of the brain. I wish I were making this up but I'm not that good a writer. And where the hell was that poem going? It's just....gone.