She was voracious, the way stories
took her somewhere. Who’d guessed,
how proprietary she felt, owning,
inhabiting them–a momentary stay
against the confusion of the world
–Frost had said it.
And he’d been wheelchair-bound,
or bed-ridden, immobile except
when pushed around, but he’d
listen up. She’d read the papers,
stories, and old scrapbooks,
stirring him out of torpor.
Days when he’d only make grunting
noises but back when, he was sagely
commenting on this and that. In truth
he still is, however mangy, and
in the dreams she had stitched
he held the fort, what he does.
“Write a paper poem. The poem could be about something made of paper, made with paper, or a document–like a contract, deed, will, etc. It’s a great time to unpack your origami poems, paper plane poems, or even your spit ball poems. Maybe you can even write it on paper.”