the bottoms and
tops of letters
and lists torn off
as utilitarian,
useful space not to
be wasted,
recycled as new
letters and lists.
Rare was the full
page, the new page;
look closely, that
full sheet is an inch
too short, a
scribbled sentence
or two cut off from
the top.
Her basket of
scraps sat by the phone
or she moved it to
the table, handy
when the need
arose, as it did
when I left home,
her need and mine.
She’d write often,
and in my otherwise
empty mail box
appeared an envelope
as mismatched as
the paper inside,
tiny scraps of
paper recycled to bring me news
of family and
friends left behind, tidbits
of local
information, or maybe something
cut and folded
tight from the newspaper,
pictures and
captions or whole articles
cut into columns
and stapled together,
someone I knew
doing something or other,
or perhaps a change
in that town called home,
home stuffed in an
envelope,
love in a tiny
space torn from scraps
of paper, old lists
and letters recycled.
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