.     I’m a blank sheet, blue,

       homeless. I’ve lost my

            Basildon Pad.


     What’s going to become

     of me? Am I going to end

     up in a sealed envelope?


     Or am I going to be made

   into a jumping frog or worse,

    a fortune telling chatterbox?


I could become a boat, or God

   forbid, a plane thrown from a

tenement balcony to the street.


  What if someone rolls me into

   a coil and uses me to light a

    fire, or a ‘ BACK IN 5' sign?


      I might end up sleeved in

    plastic, nailed to a tree, with

     a photo of a lost cat or dog.


      Fortunately I’m not large

       enough to be made into
    
       a fools cap, for a dunce.


      Obviously, my preference

        would be for something

       everlasting, like a sonnet.
  

     But no, the poet hasn’t even

   put the top on his fountain pen,

     I have become a suicide note.