Notes, hundreds of notes
scribbled on scraps of paper.
Names, numbers, dates,
appointments, favorite tunes,
penciled, penned vertically,
diagonally, parallel, perpen-
dicular, every which way,
hundreds of notes written
over the past 5-years, piled
on top the end table in my
living room. Security for me
in the event there is contained
within those disheveled slips
of paper most anything I need
or want to know. Now, in the
bedroom at my desk, I have
3-ring binders with hundreds
of my printed poetry neatly
placed. And upon my death,
I am relatively sure my kids
will rummage through all this
mess. And frustrated to make
any reasonable sense out of the
best and worst of my remains,
they will relegate my discordant
collection to the trash. Hemingway
and Twain, I maintain, did not face
the same editorial acclaim. Forgive
me, I far exceeded my allotted 15
minutes of fame.
-30-
Chris Hanch 5-14-2023
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