White Wall

If I could hang one thing on a
white wall,
it wouldn't be a painting, a photograph,
a memory.

A spiral bound notebook, turned to a
blank page
with a
black pen
hanging along beside it.

I would write. When I walked
backwards,
I would read.
And when it was filled,
I would just be another one of the few thousand years of poets,
weaving a tapestry of sound and beats,

Begin again,
because white is the cheapest
paint color.