All the paper I’ve wadded up and chucked away
Could have printed a book of more volume,
And of more depth, than the words I leave on this page.
One could have been graced with a tune –
Of lyrical artistry – written by a broken man
Who sat, with his feathered fedora, at a coffee stand.
Another could have been a Wanted poster
Crafted by a child who’s lost their best friend.
One could have advertised a Breville toaster
At the neighbor’s yard sale next week-end…
Or maybe a boarding pass from London to New York;
Or maybe the best recipe for cass’roles of pork.
There’s so many things someone could do, and have done,
with the crumpled-up pages that fill up the bin.
Into a fortune teller they go – red, five, two, then one…
But here I rest, with another page, steadied by my chin –
Cause the pen in my hand, and the words that I find,
Don’t sound a single bit like what I’ve got in my mind.