Unwritten page

A blank page on the word processor I ought to leave it this way
just look at it and dream what I could have written.
If I delete the words written, it will be a blank page again.
No history on a crumpled-up sheet of paper in a wastebasket.
For now, it is too late, but I might erase the page written
if I so choose.
All poems are if written with passion, great poems
if not by the readers but by the poet, who boarded the wrong bus
as my wife did in Johannesburg many years ago
great was her consternation when stopping an available bus
to find it was for black people.
Being born in Congo by a black mother and a Dutch father
she identified herself as black.
Not so, said the authority she was Portuguese.
Racism and ignorance, now it is the Moslems turn to feel
the surge of hatred.
We want the Moslems to behave like us, but they
insist this is not possible in the name of their religion.
What do I do now? Erase the story?