Funny business, time
lightness and dark.
A Sunday night
and just before twelve
is mostly too late
for writing in the book.
Things to do, sleep to get
calls in the morning.
None of that will matter
in ten minutes on the other side
of Thanksgiving (a few weeks away)
whereas a piece of lost paper
with a forgotten shopping list
will seem full of meaning and worth
let alone the outline of a poem
which freezes a thought,
the dream of a love letter.
Any honest word.
These things that suggest
a real life remembered,
or acknowledged in the moment,
will never be thrown away
but instead be added to the wall
of I was here in which
no future appointments
will be included
whatever time it was
in their prior demanding.
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