What’s the point
In my even existing
When all I’ve ever
Been’s a blank page
In your diary for
Twenty Eighteen
(Week beginning
November 19)?

No point now
In posting appointments
For week beginning
November 19
Twenty Eighteen,
Or a memoir of
What you no longer
Even remember,

But perhaps late one night
When you can’t find another
Piece of blank paper
You might open me and write
An idea for a poem?
Don’t blank me out!
I’m here by your bedside
(Just under your diary
For Twenty Nineteen).

"House by the Railroad," Edward Hopper, 1925


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