Tuesday, July 28, 2009
this page is torn
This page is torn.
What was once written
now taken,
put forth in the world to
make its round, pass its message
show its worth.
Perhaps used to scribble a number
a stained wrinkly scrap that she'll
pull out the back pocket of
a recently washed pair of jeans.
She'll have forgotten it existed
until then,
and she'll toss it aside,
adding to the messy stack of crap on her desk.
When she's finally
cleaning out and moving out
she'll find it again
and out of curiosity, dial
and pause,
waiting for the unexpected voice at the other end of the line.
Or maybe it's the scrap he quickly,
nervously,
palms sweatily,
wrote out exactly
-- well almost exactly
but not quite like that,
I mean,
he might not say it just that way
-- no,
no exactly what he wanted to say to her,
only her,
at their wedding toast
where he'll be delighted to stand
and speak, to explain
to the world
-- yes, the world
how and how much and how deep
his wit and intellect can reach
on one tiny piece of paper.
But the world wouldn't matter
at least not the one sitting around him
but only the world,
his world,
that sat beside him
in glorious, pristine,
infallible white.
Or maybe this was destined for a lesser purpose --
a small saviour to wrap a
discarded wad of gum
torn off the paper she always carries around
just for this reason
because she's put her hand
on so many goddamn pieces of gum
stuck on the bottom of
some desk or table or chair
-- one offending piece still wet, true story
and therefore she will
never
stick her unwanted gum on
any
public surface, to avoid creating
more poor unsuspecting victims
like herself.
Or maybe, just maybe,
it was merely ripped off in a moment
of necessity
to mark the pages of a book,
to remind, remember, rewind
to the time
when those words made an impact,
and called for such
a remembrance
but you've already heard them
so they don't matter anymore.
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